


Archetype

by Bean_reads_fanfic



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Complete, Gen, Human Experimentation, Michelle Jones bullying Tony Stark, Ned Leeds is a Good Bro, Precious Peter Parker, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony is irondad but he doesn't know it yet, actual spider-boy Peter, now featuring: whump, poor kid just wants Tony to adopt him already, school shenanigans like bullying and stuff, shady bad guys whose motives have yet to be revealed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-26
Updated: 2018-09-10
Packaged: 2019-05-13 23:25:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 57,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14758281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bean_reads_fanfic/pseuds/Bean_reads_fanfic
Summary: Tony knows something is up when the research of ex-Hydra agents gets recycled in an underground Oscorp lab… what he doesn’t expect is the boy in a hospital gown sticking to the ceiling; or, how said boy proceeds to imprint on him like a baby duckling (a poor decision on his part, really). Did he mention he wasn’t intending on bringing home a kid that day?





	1. One

_“Transferring information to the Archetype in three… two… one…”_

 

A crackling sound fills the room, sparks flying around the white-veiled form on the exam table. Within that form, a newly assembled heart trembles and then begins to beat.

 

His first waking perception is displeasure and discomfort, though he doesn’t have the words to communicate that because he doesn’t know what words are.

 

(He will later know words and will think back to this moment when he became alive and use words like “confused” and “afraid” and “alone”.)

 

(But in the moment it’s all he knows so he doesn’t know what else to expect.)

 

Buzzing fills his mind and with it comes information, complex and intricate and stunning, so many years’ worth of education of advanced maths and sciences and languages filling his brain and forming connections and concepts faster than his consciousness can keep up. For an undetermined amount of time, he simply _is_ all the information filling his brain, until suddenly it’s over and he’s a person on a table in a white room. He pants with new lungs and blinks new eyes.

 

Uniformed people hover over him. One is attaching a device to his finger that, once secured, causes a heart monitor to begin beeping nearby. Another is busy removing various electrodes from the skin of his temples and chest. Still others are doing things outside his direct line of vision.

 

_“Starting IV.”_

 

A sting in his arm makes him flinch. The movement jostles a plastic device secured over his mouth and nose, and a hand reaches from somewhere to secure it again.

 

For a while he drifts, simply existing without judgement or expectation. He breathes and blinks and marvels at the information in his head. Nothing he’s experienced so far makes sense to him. (But then, he wouldn’t be able to tell the difference if it did.)

 

It’s a while later when he realizes the movements around him have ceased.

 

Only one person stands in front of him now and he’s different from the others. His hands are clasped behind his back and he’s not doing anything but looking.

 

Noticing the boy's eyes on him, the man meets his gaze and gives him a dark smile.

 

“Alive in there, are we?” he says quietly. “It’s about time. The world's been waiting for you.”

 

…

 

“Could someone remind me why we’re here again?” Ned asks.  
  
“Because there’s free food?”    
  
“Because our smokin' hot tour guide is totally into me.”  
  
“Flash is wrong.”

  
“Okay guys I know this isn’t our typical decathlon team outing but please try to focus.” Liz’s commanding voice rises above the factory sounds around them as she glances over her shoulder. The shuffling group of kids in their navy blue Midtown High attire look back at her with varying degrees of enthusiasm.  
  
“There’s a lot we can learn here,” she continues confidently, “and since the school budget is tight and this place is offering free tours to the public, it’s one of the few field trips the decathlon club gets to make this year. Let’s try to enjoy it and maybe learn something, okay? Bonding outside the classroom setting is good for team morale.”  
  
The Bubble Shock workers dressed in neon orange suits stand at attention by the gates as their group approaches. People ahead of them are already getting scanned in through a surprisingly high tech security gate, buzzing and lighting up with every person who enters one by one. Beyond the gate, a giant set of double doors are held open to reveal the colorful machinery of the soda factory with decorative balloons and banners welcoming guests, all themed in that hideous orange color.  
  
“I can’t believe anyone actually likes this dumb drink,” Michelle mutters to Ned at the back of the group. “It tastes like a citrus version of wet dog.”  
  
“That’s an insult to wet dogs everywhere,” Ned scoffs. “It’s more like citrus and cat litter.”

 

Michelle’s lips quirk.

 

The two are not exactly friends in the conventional way, but their mutual lack of other friends causes them to gravitate to one another’s company when the opportunity arises. This particular outing is one such opportunity.  
  
“Please turn all cell phones OFF, thank you,” their tour guide is saying repeatedly, eyeing the group of adolescents especially suspiciously. She is youthful herself, maybe in her early 20s. It isn’t hard to see why Flash is hoping to get her attention; she has an unearthly kind of fairness to her features and her white-blonde hair is pulled back in a tight ponytail.  
  
“They must be really worried about someone, like, stealing their secret recipe or something, to have a security scanner like this,” Ned comments as the line ahead of them moves and at last he and Michelle are ushered through individually.  
  
“Yeah, what do they have to hide?” the girl wonders aloud as she steps through the scanner herself. For some reason the device around her makes a shiver run up her spine as though she can feel the invisible rays sweeping her body.

  
She makes eye contact with their guide as she steps into the building. The woman’s eyes are so light they are practically the color of ice and just about as warm, though her lips are stretched in a plastic smile. Michelle gives a curt nod before walking on, her sense of suspicion deepening.  
  
For the next thirty minutes or so their tour group is treated to all the exciting facts of soda-making as it goes from the lab to the shelf, the other kids having perked up as the tour did, in fact, provide free bottles of Bubble Shock and they are now all buzzing with sugar and caffeine. All except Ned and Michelle, who are both apparently part of the “2% of the population” who are underwhelmed by the new fad drink. How they managed to get that statistic so scarily exact, Michelle doesn’t know and doesn’t care. All she knows is that the orange of this place is giving her a headache and that she has several books at home that would be more entertaining than this place and they’re calling her name.

 

She respects Liz for trying, but honestly, is this worth their time? It’s hard to imagine this glorified tour on the wonders of capitalism teaching them anything useful. She for one isn’t getting anything out of it.

  
And then she sees him.  
  
They’re almost to the end of the tour when it happens; Michelle is drumming her fingers impatiently against her leg and letting her gaze drift around the high ceilings and random stairwells of the place when she catches sight of a shadow moving where it definitely doesn’t belong.  
  
All the factory personnel are dressed in the obnoxious orange color, but this figure is in a dark pair of jeans and a sweatshirt. A baseball cap is drawn down over his forehead, obscuring his features.

  
The man was sneaking along the wall of an upper balcony on tiptoes. He is only visible for a second and because Michelle is looking at the moment she is, she sees him cross the path of a beam of sunlight coming in through a high window, illuminating his face beneath the hat for that tiny moment.

 

To her surprise, she recognizes him. It’s weird to see him out of his typical formal attire, but there’s no mistaking the icon’s immaculate facial hair.

  
_Tony Stark?_ _  
_

  
And then he’s gone.

  
  
“Michelle, you coming?” Michelle’s eyes snap forward to see Ned waiting for her with a questioning look on his face. Their group is moving again and she hadn’t noticed, too busy wondering what the heck a billionaire superhero was doing infiltrating a soda factory of all things...  
  
She opens her mouth to say something to her one sort-of-friend... whether she’s going to say something sarcastic and keep this to herself or admit what she’d seen, she hasn’t decided yet… but she’s saved from making the decision because at that moment, alarms throughout the building begin blaring in unison to flashing red lights and a few startled screams from tour guests up ahead ring out.  
  
Ned looks after the evacuating crowds. His voice is panicky. “Oh man, we better—“

 

She cuts him off by grabbing his arm and jerking him the other way. “Come on, nerd. Things just got slightly more interesting.”

 

…

 

“Well this is awkward,” Tony mutters to himself as the alarms go off. “And here I thought I was doing some first-rate sneaking…”

 

Peeking over his shoulder, he sees the security guards on the ground floor— too many security guards for an ordinary soda factory— running around and shuffling guests out the exits. In his mind the genius starts reviewing his options, but Pepper’s questioning voice at his ear reminds him of the phone call he’d just picked up right before the alarms started.

 

“Tony? Where are you? What’s with all the noise?”

 

“Hey sorry, honey, I’m gonna have to call you back... I’m in the middle of a, uh, personal errand.”

 

“Oh? A personal errand that involves alarms and, let me guess, hiding from authorities?”

 

“Okay, first of all, I answer to no authority figures other than yours truly and of course you, Miss Potts.” He ignores her scoff at that, but the corner of his mouth turns up in a half smile as he ducks behind a pipe and into a narrow stairwell. “So no, I’m not hiding from anyone. I’m simply gathering information in an inconspicuous fashion.”

 

“Yeah, ‘inconspicuous’ is not a word I’d use to describe you.”

 

“And what words _would_ you use to describe me?”

 

"The diplomatic thing to say here is 'no comment'.”

 

Tony opens his mouth to retort but then clamps his mouth shut as he reaches the bottom of the steps and hears guards ahead rounding the corner in his direction.

 

He glances at the stairs that descend below the ground floor, then back up at the people heading his way, then makes a snap decision and continues down to what he presumes is the basement of the factory.

 

“As much as I want to continue this conversation—“

 

“It’s fine, it’s fine, just call me back later,” Pepper interrupts. “And try not to do anything that will be too hard to explain when it inevitably becomes my job to cover for you.” With that she hangs up and Tony stuffs his phone in his back pocket wondering how he has gone so long without proposing to this woman sooner.

 

Looking around, he hums to himself, impressed. “I’ll bet they don’t put _this_ place in their tour.”

 

The basement level of the building definitely has a theme change to it. For one thing, there aren’t any gaudy orange decorations anywhere. While the stainless steel factory look remains, the bumbling noise of machinery from above is quieted (though the alarms still blare even down here) and the hall he finds himself in is a lot more sleek and high-tech looking than above.

 

He turns a corner and catches sight of a vault-looking door... In the depths of a soda factory.

 

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say there was something worth hiding down here,” Tony murmurs to himself pleasantly.

 

A few minutes of hacking the keypad gets the door sliding open in no time. Fluorescent lights illuminate a scene that’s far from anything the man expected to see.

 

It looks almost like a patient’s room in a hospital. Pushed against the wall is a simple white-sheeted bed but it’s upturned slightly as though whoever had lain there was on display. Wires surround the bed, but the subject they’d been hooked up to is no longer there. The fact that a heart monitor is flatlining eerily nearby makes Tony suspect the patient had been disconnected abruptly.

 

Tony puts a hand on the rumpled bed sheets. They’re still slightly warm. Whoever was here had checked themselves out recently.

 

The information is still coming together in the genius’ mind, but he strongly suspects the alarm going off a few minutes ago has something to do with this missing person.

 

He gravitates to the computer in the corner, runs a hand across the track pad so that the screen lit up. A chart full of information he doesn’t have time to read right now is pulled up and he catches sight of the bolded file title: _Oscorp Cross-species Project: Archetype._

 

“Well hello there, Saturday night reading material,” he whispers, retrieving a flash drive from his pocket and slipping it into the port for download.

 

As the files transfer, it occurres to Tony to wonder how the person who escaped this room had gotten out. He pivots on one heel to survey the walls for alternative exits. High up near the ceiling is an open air vent, but since that’s impossible to reach from the ground, there can’t be any way out other than the door through which he’d entered. Weird. He must’ve just missed them.

 

Voices echoed down passageway and he anxiously checks the progress of the download.

 

“That’ll have to do,” he mutters, pulling the device out and pocketing it as the voices get closer. He slips out the door and rounds the corner just as orange-clad guards get to the bottom of the stairs.

 

“The Archetype can’t have gotten out of the building,” one sputters nervously into a communicator. “We’ll find him before he’s discovered, sir!”

 

“You had better,” an deep, angry voice crackles on the other end of the line. “His mental state is extremely fragile right now and the wrong exposure could compromise this entire project.”

 

“Understood, sir,” the guard replies hurriedly, hanging up the device.

 

“Could someone turn off these blasted alarms?” his companion mutters. “It’s not really helping anything now that the civilians are gone…”

 

They pass Tony’s hiding place and he creeps after them slowly. Clearly the building is in lockdown, so how the heck he’s gonna get out without being noticed, he doesn’t know.

 

More people are heading down the stairwell, so Tony yanks on the nearest doorknob and shoves himself inside. The sign above the door marks it as the women’s restroom, so his hope is that he can hide out there til the floor is emptied of goons. If nothing else, he hopes social custom will keep him safe in here til he can come up with a better plan.

 

Letting out a deep breath he’d been holding, the genius turns his back to the door.

 

And claps a hand over his mouth to smother a startled yell.

 

It’s a perfectly ordinary public restroom, except that along with the given grime and cobwebs, there’s a teenage boy in a white hospital gown crouched upside-down on the ceiling like an insect.

 

The kid’s wide brown eyes are locked on Tony’s face. For a solid thirty seconds the two do nothing but stare at each other. Slowly the man lowers his hand from his mouth and he blinks to make sure he’s not seeing things.

 

“Um… hello?” Tony tries.

 

The boy blinks back at him. “Um… hello?” he parrots, copying Tony’s voice inflection.

 

“You, uh, _hang_ here often? Is this a new thing that kids are into these days?” He double checks the boy for adhesive gloves of any kind but either his eyes were lying to him, or this kid is actually defying gravity with his fingertips and bare feet.

 

The words seem to confuse the sticky boy, because his brow creases and Tony can practically see him trying to decipher their meaning.

 

Both of them startle out of their staring contest when feet thunder past on the other side of the door. Tony looks back up and sees the kid watching the door with a cornered-animal look in his eyes. He backpedals towards a grate in the corner of the ceiling, much like the one he’d seen back in the hospital-looking room.

 

“Wait!” Tony whispers, reaching out a hand. The teen pauses, his eyes snapping to Tony again.

 

He waits for the feet outside to pass before continuing. “I’m gonna go out on a limb here and guess you’re the one they’re looking for, so allow me inform you that I’m _not_ with them. I’m trying to take my exit too, as a matter of fact. Maybe we can help each other. Think you can… unstick yourself enough to come down here?” He gestures from the kid to the ground demonstratively.

 

The boy doesn’t move for a moment and Tony is starting to wonder if he even knows English at all when suddenly it’s like he hit the ‘release’ button on his sticky powers. Tony reaches out in alarm to catch the kid now falling head first to the tile, but like a cat he flips in midair and lands lightly on his feet right in front of the man. A lock of fluffy brown hair flops down over his forehead on impact.

 

“Okay then…” Tony breathes, looking him up and down.

 

“Okay then,” the boy repeats.

 

 _The copy cat thing is gonna get old fast_ , Tony thinks with a flash of annoyance.

 

Suddenly the boy crouches defensively and whines, looking past Tony at the door. From where he stands right in front of him, Tony can see all the hair on his bare arms standing on end.

 

He turns to follow his gaze, but the door is still closed and the only sound outside it is the muffled ringing of the alarms.

 

“Kid, what—“

 

Then the door opens and Tony startles when two more teenagers stuff themselves in.

 

One is a freaked-looking boy in a Star Wars t-shirt whose eyes look like they’re gonna pop out of his head at the sight of Tony Stark in the flesh. The other is a frizzy-haired girl with a calculating glint in her eye that tells Tony she is the one in control of the pair. She glances at the hospital-gown clad boy with a frown before meeting the billionaire’s eye and addressing him in a low, unwavering voice.

 

“We know a shortcut out of this place. Follow us.” She jerks her head over her shoulder and pushes her companion out of the way without giving Tony a chance to formulate a response.

 

 _So many questions_ , Tony thinks. _I have so many questions right now and it’s only half past ten in the morning._


	2. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Cheeseburgers, anyone?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey you bunch of Nerds.  
> thanks for the feedback thus far!! I am an insecure potato so it means a lot,,...  
> I hope you're having a nice Monday (+memorial day in the US).

The escape instinct grows stronger the longer he lays awake.

 

Nobody speaks to him other than the man from before, and though he knows theoretically that his mouth and voice box can form words, he doesn’t see the point in trying. The white-coated people he’s seen so far treat each other with respect (they look each other in the eye when communicating, mind one another’s personal space, etc.), but with him, it’s different. They prod his reflex points and check his vitals and scribble notes the same as if he were still a lifeless body. They say things about him like he’s not sitting in front of them breathing and blinking and thinking just like them.

 

As his thoughts become clearer, he mulls over the visceral concept of good verses bad. By the time they shut the lights off and leave him in the dark, he makes his first conscious decision:

 

Where he is right now is _not good_.

 

And then comes his first conception of hope: Maybe there is good somewhere else?

 

That’s all he can think about now as he follows the new people he’d met, the four of them hurrying together through an underground maze.

 

He is relieved to find that the shrill wailing and flashing lights from the walls has finally stopped; the volume before was so painful to his sensitive ears that he had taken refuge in the first room he found without them. That’s where he met the odd man.

 

Not everything he said made sense, but the boy understands that he’s different from the other people he was with. Different in a good way. So if the man trusts the two newcomers’ directions, he deems it safe to follow.

 

“Michelle… what the… what’s... _Iron Man_?” he hears the young male pant as they run.

 

His female companion ignores him, simply leading them to a metal door tucked behind a stack of crates. “This is it. Emergency exit.”

 

The man he’s decided to trust speaks, and the boy looks to him. “And you’re sure this isn’t, say, a closet?” He tugs at the handle by the door didn’t budge.

 

“I saw the stairs from the outside when we came in.”

 

“Well, confidence-inspiring as that is, I regret to announce that this is locked, so unless—“

 

The boy stops paying attention because he picks up on other heartbeats in the building getting closer to them. A yearning squeezes the heart in his chest: freedom is _so close_. He shoves past them all and takes hold of the latch himself, yanking against its internal mechanisms. The metal creaks and gives. One of the people behind him gasps.

 

But he doesn’t turn back because his first taste of fresh air fills his lungs and it propels him forward without hesitation.

 

…

 

If the chilling-on-the-ceiling thing wasn’t his first clue that Tony was dealing with an enhanced individual, the bending-solid-metal part is definitely the cincher.

 

He sighs because of course. Of _course_ the sketchy soda company that pops up out of nowhere in the same spot that an ex-Hydra facility used to be is housing a high tech Oscorp lab with an enhanced teenager inside. And now he is basically babysitting said super teen along with two random high schoolers. _What is my life?_

 

Shepherding the three children across the parking lot and into his waiting Chevy Malibu (his low-profile ride of choice for what he thought would be an uneventful reconnaissance mission), he slides on his seatbelt and tears out of there in the direction of the only reasonable destination he can think of.

 

“Cheeseburgers, anyone?”  

 

…

 

Within twenty minutes the unlikely group is seated in an excluded booth of the most run-down diner in Queens. Tony sips ice water through a bendy straw and surveys his unlikely company. If it weren’t for the fact that the three of them are about the same age and each of a different ethnicity, it could almost look like he were a domestic dad treating his kids to early lunch.

 

He tugs the brim of his hat a little closer to his face, conscious of the singular waitress eyeing them from behind the counter. He waits till she returned to the kitchen before speaking.

 

He clears his throat. “So, names. Who wants to go first?”

 

To his right, the white clad boy is sitting up straight and looking around at everything like a curious newborn. When he hears Tony’s voice, his eyes snap to the man. Tony looks back at him and raises an eyebrow.

 

“How bout you, wall-crawler,” he suggests. “You got a name?”

 

The boy just looks at him like he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do with the question.

 

Across from them, the curly haired girl looks the boy up and down thoughtfully. She has one elbow casually propped on the table supporting her chin like this is a completely normal situation for a Saturday afternoon. The black-haired boy, on the other hand, is shifting uncomfortably on the red vinyl seat with barely-contained nervous energy.

 

Tony’s invitation is all he needs to spill.

 

“I’m Ned Leeds, sir. This is Michelle Jones. We’re sophomores at Midtown School of Science and Technology. We don’t know who he is, though.” He eyes the mystery kid. “Our scholastic decathlon team was visiting Bubble Shocks company for their tours for, like, a group bonding activity or something dumb like that and Michelle told me she saw you right before the alarms went off and made me come with her to see what was going on even though I said it was probably a bad idea, and then we saw you hiding from those guards so that means that, like, something bad was going down there, right? Because you’re, like, a superhero and if you were sneaking around then like…” He pauses, blushing, then rushes to finish. “But yeah, we don’t know what’s going on much more than that…”

 

“Why is he dressed like that?” The girl—Michelle Jones— asked bluntly. She takes a sip of her sprite and glances the boy up and down again.

 

“Hey, be nice,” Tony says, but he too takes a glance at the boy's clinical getup. It’s a little thicker and more covering than the cheap garment one usually receives at the doctor’s office, but it still screams labrat. “I know high school is a breeding ground for insecurities, but this table right here? This is a judgement-free zone.”

 

Michelle ignores his snark. “He looks like he came from a hospital. How did he get to the factory?”

 

“And how did he open the door like that?” Ned adds, joining them in staring at the boy. He stares back at them, alert but still obviously unsure about participating in the conversation.

 

The genius sighs. Truth be told, he has some ideas, but they aren’t good.

 

At that moment the waitress approaches their table with a tray of burgers and fries, the tempting greasy smell wafting over them. After she leaves, Tony waves his hands over the food in a _dig-in_ gesture and picks up his own burger. Ned does the same, stuttering thanks. Michelle snags a fry and squirts some ketchup on the wax paper lining.

 

Only the kid in the corner doesn’t move right away. His eyes are locked on the food before him. His mouth opens, closes, then opens again.

 

“Is this food?” he finally asks.

 

“Woah, he does talk!” Tony exclaims around a mouthful. “Yeah, help yourself, kid.” He slides a burger towards him.

 

The kid tentatively reaches out and picks it up, glancing back and forth from Tony’s burger to his as if making sure he’s doing it right. He lifts it to his mouth and takes an experimental bite. As he chews, his face lights up in wonder. He hums and swallows, eagerly going back for more.

 

“Geez, kid, it’s like you’ve never had a burger before,” Tony laughs.

 

In a few minutes the sandwich is gone and the teen who’d devoured it licks his lips and plays with his now-greasy fingers like he’s savoring the experience. “Food is _good_ ,” he says, like it’s a decision.

 

He looks up at the man again and zeroes in on Tony’s lingering smile. Experimentally, he lifts the corners of his mouth in an imitation of the expression. With his curly brown hair and shiny eyes, he looks like a puppy who’s proud to have learned a new trick.

 

“Seriously, kid, what are you called?” Tony tries again since it appears the food offering has succeeded in opening him up a bit.

 

His tentative smile drops and he falls still. He looks at the crook of his arm, thinking, and Tony can just see the pinprick where an IV had recently been. “They… they called me 'Archetype'.”

 

 _‘Project: Archetype’._ He really needs to read those files he downloaded... “Okay, catchy nickname, but you’ve gotta have a _real_ name, right? I’m Tony Stark, and you’re…?”

 

“I don’t have a name.” He looks a bit lost when Tony continues to stare at him. “Is that good or bad?”

 

“Mr. Stark, why were you at the Bubble Shock factory in the first place?” Ned interrupts, reminding Tony of the other two teens present. He turns to them, still puzzling out the ‘Archetype’s words in the back of his mind.

 

“Well…” He debates how much to tell. “You kids know what Hydra is, right? All their crap was dumped on the internet a few years ago.” They nod. “And I assume you’re familiar with Oscorp Biotech Labs too?”

 

“We took a field trip there last semester,” Michelle informs him. “They’re really into their cross-species research.”

 

 _Oh, they certainly are._ “Let’s just say that I have a suspicion about those two buddying up lately and the trail led me to a certain soda company so I decided to investigate. And that’s all you need to know because now that I’ve done my civic duty by feeding and chatting with the most unexpected accomplices of my life, I’m giving you money for the subway so you can go back home and pretend this never happened. Capiche?”

 

Ned looks slightly disappointed, but Michelle remains impassive. “What about _him_?” she asks, jabbing a thumb at the Archetype boy. A valid question.

 

“Oh, he and I have some errands to run…” Starting with a trip to the nearest clothing store. His ‘escaped from a hospital’ look is going out of style fast, if the weird looks other customers keep throwing him are any indication.

 

“You’re gonna need us.”

 

Tony scoffs. “Why, cuz we’re _‘connected’_? Don’t try it with me, kid; I’ve heard that one before.”

 

Michelle is unimpressed. “He needs normal clothes,” she states, like she’d read Tony’s mind. “Do you even know how to go clothing shopping for a teenager?”

 

He rolls his eyes. “I have an IQ over 200. I think I can figure it out.”

 

“And you’re just gonna take him out in public like that, probably to some fancy clothing store where you do all your shopping? Where he’ll draw even more attention to your little ‘research project’?” The girl makes air quotes and leans forward. “Because if you take us with, I know a low-key place not far from here where he wouldn’t turn any heads. Last stop, then you can dump us.”

 

…

 

A little bell chimes as Tony pushes open the door. His gaggle of children shuffle in one by one with the Archetype taking up the rear. He pauses to look at the bell overhead cautiously, then makes eye contact with Tony. The genius raises his eyebrows. The kid sees whatever assurance he’s looking for, because he visibly relaxes and follows the others in, allowing Tony to swing the door shut.

 

(Tony tells himself he is _not_ a pushover, he just wants to get the kids off his case and figures the fairest way to do that is let them have this since Michelle was so insistent… and it isn’t because she reminds him of an intimidating little version of Pepper at _all_.)

 

But stepping into the repurposed second-hand store, he has to admit she knew what she was talking about. It looks like a grandparent’s attic mixed with a Hot Topic in here… dusty with an attitude. It isn’t very spacious, but every nook and cranny is crammed with used books, clothing, shoes and random knick-knacks. The cashier is a blue-mohaked young adult who sits with his feet on the counter and his nose buried in a thick book titled ‘ _Does God Ever Speak Through Cats?’_ He doesn’t even look up as they enter, but Michelle throws a nonchalant greeting to him like they’ve talked dozens of times and he offers her a salute from behind his pages. Other than him, there are only a couple other customers milling about, and they look equally as absorbed in their own (weird) worlds. One person does look up at the tinkle of the bell, but if anything about the newcomers’ appearance seems off, they don’t seem to care, as they go back to sifting through beat-up CD cases. Weird punk music plays quietly over the speakers.

 

“Where on earth have you taken us,” Tony whispers, half awed and half horrified.

 

“So, first thing’s first,” Michelle says, clapping her hands together and turning to face the others. “Measurements. Ned, grab a couple sizes for him to try and we can get started.” She tips her head at the small changing rooms in the corner.

 

Inside the back room, Tony turns his head to give the kid as much privacy as possible while still keeping an eye on what he sees of his bare feet from under the stall door. He’d ushered the kid in and told him to take off his white cotton gown, then waited for a few minutes of complete silence before realizing nothing was happening. When he knocked and opened the door, he found the kid helplessly tugging at his collar and realized there was a zipper down the back of the outfit that he had no hope of reaching.

 

Now that that’s fixed, he’s back to waiting. Awkwardly. While the other two kids get to do the remotely fun part of picking out clothes.

 

“Here’s a few shirts and pants,” Ned’s voice comes from outside, and a couple items of clothing are shoved in.

 

He tosses them over the stall door to the kid. A minute later, the handle turns and the kid peeks out unsurely.

 

“Is this good?” he asks timidly.

 

In the faded jeans and maybe-a-bit-too-big-T-shirt, he’s finally looking like a normal teenager.

 

“Hmm. You’re gonna need a smaller shirt size, but you’ve definitely leveled up from the night gown. What size is that?”

 

The boy looked down at the red tee. “What… size…” he repeats to himself, trying to figure out what Tony wants.

 

“Oh for the love of Pete, take it off and check the tag. ...No, no, not immediately!” Tony backtracks as the kid begins obediently pulling it off right there. “I meant go back into the--”

 

Wait.

 

What.

 

“Kid,” he says with a suddenly serious tone. “Kid, I’m not trying to be weird, but lift your shirt again for a sec.”

 

The boy complies, gripping the hem and lifting it up to his chest.

 

Tony stares.

 

“Kid,” he chokes. “You don’t have a belly button.”

 

Where a navel should be is just flat, uninterrupted skin.

 

The boy meets Tony’s eyes earnestly. “Is that good or bad?”

 

“Um…” For once in his life, Tony Stark didn’t know what to say. “Uh… I mean… bad? Not necessarily. Super freaking _weird_? Absolutely. In fact, let me just… hang on, I’m gonna check something real quick...”

 

Tony has a version of FRIDAY on his person at all times lately, and today’s form is a wrist gauntlet disguised as a watch that’s also the technological equivalent of a multi-purpose pocket knife: it has several available functions, not all of which he’s really had to use before. Now seems like as good a time as any to try out one specifically.

 

He activates the scanner and aims it at the kid, who has let his shirt drop but still stands there looking puzzled. “FRIDAY, age and aging rate?”

 

Blue light rays sweep up and down the boy. A tense moment passes and then a reading comes up on Tony’s wrist screen.

 

“Aging rate is normal,” Tony breaths, a bit relieved. “You’re from Earth it seems. But… Okay, I may need to take another look at this thing because it’s telling me you’re 720 years old.” Then Tony blanches. “No... no, wait… it’s saying you’re 720 _minutes_ old…”

 

“Is that good or bad?” the kid repeats.

 

…

 

Tony files this whole experience thus far under a mental folder titled ‘crazy-crap-that-doesn’t-make-any-sense-but-just-roll-with-it-for-now’ and it’s not the first time he’s had to use it (hello, actual alien invasion), but it’s definitely a contestant for Most Unexpected.

 

After a bit, Ned and Michelle peek in to see how he’s liking their picks, but the kid hasn’t shown any real preferences. That is, until he holds up one shirt they picked out that’s gray and shows a drawing of two atoms, each with a cartoon face and a speech bubble. Their dialogue reads “I lost an electron!” and “Are you positive?” It’s ridiculously corny and Tony’s about to throw it in the reject pile when suddenly a genuine smile cracks the kid’s facade and he actually laughs, a delighted noise that shocks all of them. Even the kid himself looks surprised and his hand shoots to his mouth as if to find out where the noise came from. A second later, the others are laughing at his reaction and he drops his hand and smiles again, if a bit timidly.

 

 _Baby’s first laugh_ , Tony thinks.

 

“Whoever find the most nerdy t-shirts wins,” he says instead.

 

Together they raid the second-hand shop and end up with one NASA t-shirt, one short-sleeved tee that reads “the Physics is Theoretical but the Fun is Real”, several complementary long-sleeve flannels and a few not-too-worn sweaters. A few more pairs of jeans and a scuffed pair of all-star converse complete their job. When they check out, the boy is dressed in a completely normal (if very nerdy) outfit.

 

“...And that concludes your accidental field trip with Tony Stark, kids,” he tells them as they leave the store, the cranky bell chime sending them off. “Me and Science Puns here gotta hit the road.”

 

Ned, who had been fostering a newfound affinity with the other boy since the moment he laughed at the electron shirt and thus revealed an inner nerdy side, is still carrying on excitedly about his own nerdy Star Wars shirt. He’s really enthusiastic about it and the kid seems fascinated by Ned in general. He even asks a few quiet questions during Ned’s sci-fi spiel.

 

While they finish up, the scarily ever-knowing Michelle girl jabs her finger in Tony’s chest and speaks to him privately. “Listen, Stark. I’ve read about you becoming more of a human’s rights activist in recent years, and it better be true. Because I’m pretty sure whatever they did to him,” she nods minutely at the boy without looking away from Tony, “as a _genetic experiment_ in the middle of a _food processing facility_ is at least an FDA violation and most likely something much worse. So get to the bottom of it.”

 

Tony tries not to look as impressed as he feels.

 

The cash he gives them is probably too much for bus fare, but then, it’s also kind of a ‘thank you’ since he’s too proud to say those words, and steers his new charge into the passenger seat of the Malibu once more, already mentally planning all the tests he has to run and the file-reading he’ll do to figure out what the heck is going on. He sure didn’t leave the house that day with the intention of bringing home a kid, but knowing he’s enhanced and practically an infant, he has no other choice. Pepper’s gonna flip.

 

He doesn’t notice a blonde-ponytailed woman in shades watching them from across the street, nor does he see her slide into a sleek compact car of her own and follow them out into traffic.

 

He hadn’t gotten into the factory via the main entrance so he doesn’t recognize her as the same icy tour guide who was checking in the visitors at Bubble Shock.

 

…

 

“I’ve located the Archetype,” she intones into her phone. “Pursuing now.” 


	3. Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony gets an idea. 
> 
> “Peter!” he tries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s 1am and I have work at 5am. You Nerds better like this.   
> Happy June 1st, Tom Holland’s birthday!

The boy processes everything at lightspeed. That includes him learning quickly what he does and doesn’t like.

 

What he likes: The man, Tony Stark, whom Ned addressed as ‘Mr. Stark’, because he’s safe and nice and gave him food; food itself; his new clothing; Michelle’s confidence; Ned’s excitement.

 

What he doesn’t like: The displeasure on their faces when they lean he doesn’t have a name, and when Tony sees that he doesn’t have a ‘belly button’ and looks at him like he’s a confusing equation. And the idea of going back to the white-coated people— he really doesn’t like that. 

 

So when the others part ways and he still gets to go with Tony, he’s feeling pretty good about it. Tony is good. Tony is safe. 

 

He sits at attention when they climb in the vehicle, watching the man get situated. 

 

“Are we going to your home now?” he asks. 

 

“Yep.”

 

“Where do you live? Can I live with you?” 

 

Tony gives him a weird look before checking his mirrors and backing up the car. “You’ll see. And, uh… I don’t know about that. Let’s just take one thing at a time, okay?”

 

The boy’s enthusiasm falters a bit, but then perks up again. “Is there more food at your house?” 

 

“Sure.”

 

“I like food,” he tells him. “Food is good.”

 

“Geez, you got a lot to say  _ now _ , don’t you?”

 

They’re in the street now, weaving through marked lanes like a blood cell in a vessel. The ride goes by quickly, maybe twenty minutes. The boy sits still but his eyes look at everything they pass. He is, in fact, getting more comfortable with talking, so he asks a few questions about what he sees-- the other vehicles, the traffic signals, the people walking by outside-- and Tony offers semi-attentive answers, distracted by the road and whatever he’s thinking about. 

 

Still, the boy marvels at every piece of new information he’s given. The world he was born into is making sense to him bit by bit. It gets him asking more and more questions. 

 

At one point he says something that makes the man use that phrase again— “for the love of Pete”. 

 

Which of course leads to: “What is a Pete?” 

 

“It’s not a thing, it’s a name. It’s short for Peter. And it’s just an expression that means you’re being incredibly annoying.”

 

Peter. Whoever Peter is, he thinks they must be good for Tony to love them. 

 

Suddenly a prickling warning feeling tingles up the boy’s spine and he stiffens back against the leather seat. Waves of nervous energy make him clench his fists and look out the back windows of the car anxiously. Seeing the change, Tony frowns at him. 

 

“You alright there, kid?”

 

He shakes his head and looks back at the man. “Something is wrong.” 

 

“What does that mean? Are you feeling sick or something?” 

 

Why doesn’t Tony sense the danger too? “There’s something bad… bad like...” he trails off quietly, not knowing how to explain _. _

 

“Okay, well, we're almost there so if you’re gonna throw up, please try to wait one more minute,” is all he says. 

 

They’re at the base of a skyscraper so tall, he can’t see the top of it from inside the car. They enter an underground garage lit by yellow lanterns at the base of the tower, pausing at a booth with a stylized “A”, where Tony reaches out to enter a passcode. A parking gate lifts and they move forward again. It’s mostly empty within and the few cars that are parked down here have no people in them.

 

“Here we are,” Tony is saying, but the boy’s anxious feeling is going haywire now. He barely notices the man get out of the car and open the passenger side door for him. “Kid?”

 

Time slows down. All his instincts scream at him, and before Tony can ask anything else, the boy springs forward like a stone from a sling and tackles the man to the ground a split second before a gunshot rings out. 

 

—

 

Tony’s head slams the pavement and he sees stars. Dang, that kid doesn’t hold back. Note to self: let him know how fragile non-enhanced-humans are. 

 

But he hears the echoing bang and his thoughts stop cold. “Kid?!” he chokes, pushing off the ground. 

 

Archetype-boy moves  _ fast _ because he’s already on his feet again, standing over Tony protectively like a threatened predator. Tony looks past him and sees his would-be killer: a youthful-looking blonde woman dressed all in black and looking them over with deadly intensity. 

 

She reloads her gun nonchalantly and steps closer. “Stark. I see you’ve found out about our pet project.” She jerks her head at the boy, who whines lowly in warning. 

 

“Oh yeah, he’s a great kid,” Tony tells her casually. “A bit on the young side, but he’s got good taste in science puns. And who might you be?”

 

Without taking his eyes off her, he fumbles for his wrist device and requests a suit from 50 stories up. The wireless connection is crappy down here but the command is slowly sending...

 

“None of your business,” she drawls. “Don’t mind if I take him off your hands, do you? He’s kind of an investment.” 

 

She takes aim again and Tony’s heart rate spikes— the call to the suit has only just gone through and it won’t be here for another thirty seconds— but before her finger can each the trigger, the boy springs into action. With a bound he’s in front of her, one of his hands shooting out to grip and twist her wrist. She cries out in surprise and frustration, swinging her other arm to grab him by the hair but he’s kicking her in the stomach before she gets a grip. She goes flying and hits the garage wall. 

 

20 seconds…

 

She grunts, getting to her feet. “So, you’ve trained the Archetype already,” she spits. “Figures Tony Stark would know his way around a weapon.”

 

Tony opens his mouth, but it’s the boy who speaks up. “I’m  _ not _ ,” he insists, but it’s like he’s talking to himself. “I’m  _ not _ what you want me to be. I’m  _ good _ ! Like Tony and Michelle and Ned and Peter.”

 

_ Peter? _ Tony thinks, caught off guard.  _ Who now? _

 

She scoffs at him. “You are a prototype to studied and scrapped.” On her feet again, she raises her wrist and Tony can see a high-tech device clasped there like a watch. “I didn’t want to damage you prematurely, but if it’s between that and losing the Project, you better believe I’ll put you in your place.”

 

10 seconds…

 

She hits a button on her arm and suddenly the boy gasps, stumbling back. He thumps against the hood of the car and scrabbles uselessly for purchase on the sleek surface, face screwed up in pain and shock. He whines, clawing at his chest. Within seconds he’s hitting the ground bonelessly, eyelids fluttering. 

 

The woman stalks forward and snatches up her gun again. “Where were we?” she says. 

 

Tony can hear the suit thrusters echoing down the tunnel. He holds his arms out for the first pieces of metal that shoot forward to encase him. The second his weaponized gauntlets are secure and operational, he turns and launches a shot at the woman. She ducks, rolling behind a car for cover. 

 

“You okay, kid?” Tony asks worriedly, eyeing the fallen teen on the cement. He’s breathing quick, shallow breaths, and his eyes are screwed shut. 

 

“You have no right to interfere with our work!” the woman shouts, reappearing from behind the car to aim a rapid series of shots in their direction. Guess she has a variety of fun weapons on that holster of hers. 

 

“I’m Tony Stark, I have the right to do whatever I want!” he yells back, easily deflecting the bullets with his metal arms raised. 

 

He flies forward to draw the fire from the boy and closes an iron fist over the firing end of the gun. The pressure in the chamber causes it to burst, throwing shrapnel at the pissed-off woman. She cries out and falls back as the explosion peppers her with cuts. 

 

He leans over her. “I think it’s time you tell me all about your super secret evil plans,” he says. 

 

Her icy eyes dart between Iron Man in front of her and her target several feet back. A shaking, bleeding hand grips her wrist device again, and behind Tony, the boy cries out in pain and begins thrashing anew. 

 

“How about no,” she spits over his cries. “If we don’t get the Archetype, no one does.” 

 

With that, she curls her legs into her chest and springs into Tony’s torso, making him stumble back, then sprints for a motorcycle as he regains balance. The vehicle charges to life at her touch and within seconds she’s speeding toward the exit. 

 

Tony’s about to pursue when the boy behind him lets out another whimper, and he curses after the woman’s retreating form and sprints back to the shuddering kid. 

 

“FRIDAY, scan and tell me where the problem is,” he orders. 

 

A scanned 3D-model of the bent-over boy appears in his HUD and hones in on a tiny metal square implanted in the back of his neck, located right below his shirt collar. “Microchip located. It is too close to his spine to be safely removed without extreme care. He’s moving too much to attempt an extraction.”

 

“What do you suggest?”

 

“An EMP would temporarily short circuit the device, boss, but it would also power down the suit.”

 

“Let’s do it.”

 

Both of his wrist gauntlets light up in sync and he brings them together. A low boom sounds through the garage and with it, the suit sputters out of energy. At the same time, the boy falls limp on the ground. 

 

…

 

Tony’s staff is well aware that he’s an eccentric person and they’re well trained by now to know better than asking about his weird behaviors. Still, carrying an unconscious teen (who is in fact not actually a teen at all) into the elevator and up to his personal floors, he’s grateful to not run into anybody. Even for Tony Stark, this could raise a few questions. 

 

He dithers on where to go, but decides the lab is probably a safe bet. Nobody disturbs him in his personal lab except Pepper, who is out of town, and Rhodey, but only when he needs something. He lays the kid down on the singular couch, which he figures is comfortable enough for a knocked-out superkid who hasn’t had the opportunity to look at a bed, let alone have a preference for sleeping on one. 

 

The boy’s hands have minor scrapes, probably from when he knocked Tony to the ground, but they’re already healing, courtesy of a healing factor no doubt. Other than that he has no major injuries. After double-checking that with FRIDAY, Tony pulls over a chair and sets up his laptop. 

 

He fishes out his pocketed USB and connects it. 

 

…

 

It’s getting to be evening when the kid stirs. Maybe it should worry Tony that he was out so long, but then he remembers the kid has only been alive for almost a day and he probably hasn’t stopped to rest during any of it. 

 

Tony puts a hand on the boy’s shoulder as he blinks lethargically. “Hey, kid, how you feelin?” he prompts. 

 

The touch makes him spring upright, shooting a fist in Tony’s direction. He’s still out of it enough that Tony catches his wrists easily, but the panicked flailing startles him. 

 

“Kid!” he says, trying to get the boy’s attention. His eyes are still unfocused, searching the unfamiliar room with rapid eye movements, his breathing picking up into hyperventilation. “Kid, chill!”

 

It doesn’t work. 

 

Tony gets an idea. 

 

“Peter!” he tries. 

 

The boy’s panicking stops suddenly. Wide, frightened eyes finally make contact with the mans’ face. 

 

“Peter,” he says again since that seems to be the magic word. “Calm down. It’s just you and me. It’s Tony. Remember me?”

 

The boy stares at him, blinks once, and then lunges forward into Tony’s arms. It’s so out of left field that Tony takes a second to gape before bringing his arms up to pat the kid’s back awkwardly.

 

“It’s okay, you’re okay,” he says, loosening up a bit as the kid-- now self-named Peter-- snuggles closer.

 

He hears a tiny whisper. “I want to be good, Mr. Stark. I don’t want them to take me back. I wanna be good.”

 

Still feeling somewhat awkward about the hug situation, he eases the kid back to arm’s length and looks him over. To Tony’s relief, there are no signs of tears in his eyes, but he’s obviously shaken. The attempted capture-turned-attempt-on-his-life is clearly still fresh on his mind and come to think of it, that was probably a traumatic experience for a one-day-old. 

 

“Hey, hey, nobody’s taking you anywhere,” he tells him, suppressing his discomfort (because sure, he has no idea how to console a child, but this one needs someone right now and by default that’s gotta be Tony). “And you can be anything you wanna be, okay? Even ‘Peter’ apparently. You like that name, huh?”

 

Peter nods.

 

Tony realizes something. “‘For the love of Pete’...” He laughs. “Yep, that’s you. Good choice.”

 

Peter smiles a little.

 

He clears his throat. “And, as far as being good, well... you saved my life earlier, kiddo. That counts for something. I owe you one.”

 

The hopeful puppy-dog eyes he gets in response make Tony feel about as soft as a marshmallow. He wonders if that’s a superpower they gave him on purpose, or if he’s really got a paternal side after all. 

 

A companionable silence falls and Tony’s saved from figuring out what to say next when Peter’s stomach rumbles. The kid looks down at himself with a confused expression and it’s so comical ( _ not _ cute) that Tony laughs.

 

“More food for you, Petey-pie,” he says, standing and offering the kid his hand. “Shall we?”

 

…

 

The boy’s earlier woes are all but forgotten when he learns there is more than one kind of food. 

 

He sits bouncing excitedly in a stool at the kitchen island while Tony browses the shelves, pulling out a few dishes and starting something up on the stove. He sets a round red fruit (an “apple”)  in front of Peter for him to eat while he waits. 

 

“We tell no one that the first thing I fed you in your life was junk food, got it?” the man tells him conspiratorially over his shoulder. He’s stirring something in a pot that Peter can’t see, but the smells makes his mouth water. 

 

While Tony is busy, Peter nibbles his apple, savoring the sweet juice and crunchy texture. His eyes wander around the spacious living area, with its high glass windows and a variety of furniture. He glances at Tony before hopping down from the stool to look around a bit, his apple still clutched in his hands. 

 

A walk around the room takes him to a large bookshelf by the wall. It’s filled with complexly-named volumes and scientific journals, which he finds himself eager to open and read. Setting his apple on the coffee table, he reaches for one and flips through it, soaking in the words like a sponge. It’s the first time he’s read, but like language in general he finds it comes easily to him. 

 

Setting that aside, his gaze sweeps upward and he spots a book on the very top of the bookcase that’s covered in dust, like it hasn’t been read in years. Peter’s eyes catch the author’s name on the corner he can see— Stark— and suddenly he longs to read  _ that _ book. 

 

Only, it’s definitely too high up for him to reach from here. 

 

He sets down his apple and, as naturally as breathing, Peter splays his fingers on the wall and begins scaling. 

 

“Okay, kid, I think this soup is good to— What the—!” Tony calls from the kitchen, exclaiming when he turns to see the boy crouched on top of the bookshelf. 

 

They look at each other— a deja vu moment from when they first met only that morning— and before either says anything else, Peter stills and looks at the elevator a moment before it dings and opens. A man he hasn’t seen before walks in. 

 

“Hey Tones, what’s with the not answering your cell today?” the man says, approaching Tony. He doesn’t notice Peter sitting statue-still on his perch. 

 

“Rhodey!” Tony greets cheerfully, if somewhat nervously. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

 

Peter narrows his eyes, trying to decide if this is a friend (like Michelle and Ned) or a bad person (like the woman with the gun and the watch that hurt him). He sees the kindness in the man’s eyes though and decides on friend. 

 

“Well, like I said, I’ve been trying to reach you,” Rhodey continues. “Leg braces got all touchy for a sec earlier today and I was wondering if you could take a look at them.”

 

“Sure! No problem. Anything for you, pal,” Tony rambles, glancing at Peter out of the corner of his eye. Peter waits. 

 

“Okay, cool…” Rhodey's brow furrows in suspicion at the quick response. His gaze falls to the counter where two bowls have been set out. “You have company? I thought Pepper was out of town for SI stuff this weekend?”

 

“She is, she is,” Tony confirms. He sighs and looks at his friend. “I, uh… I should probably tell you something actually…”

 

At that moment, an alarming feeling rises in Peter’s sinuses. He doesn’t know what’s happening and he can’t stop it when he suddenly inhales sharply, jams his eyes shut and sneezes. The movement stirs more of the nose-irritating dust around him. He sniffles, opening his eyes. 

 

Rhodey’s eyes are fixed on Peter and wide as saucers, his mouth open in shock. 

 

Tony rolls his eyes. “Seriously?” he asks Peter. Peter shrugs. 

 

“Tony, there’s a kid on your bookshelf,” Rhodey says calmly. 

 

Tony runs a hand down his face. “Yeah, well, at least he’s not on the ceiling,” he mutters to himself. And then louder: “Kid, could you can come down from there now?”

 

Peter, the book he wanted now in one hand, eases forward and hops back down to the floor. With his other hand he picks up his apple again and trots over to his chair. 

 

“You had dinner yet, Rhodes?” Tony asks, turning around and going for another bowl. 

 

“You— I don’t under— who is this?” Rhodey gapes, his tone demanding but also resigned. 

 

“My name is Peter,” Peter chirps helpfully. 

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You’ve named him, Tony. You’ll never get rid of him now. The transformation into IronDad has begun.


	4. Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “This is why you’re not a parent," Rhodey mutters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is probably poorly edited but does it look like I care? I don’t care. Sue me.

“Fascinating,” Norman breathes through steepled fingers.  

 

Grainy and nauseatingly jerky the footage may be, the man seems entirely calm as he stares at the lit computer screen before him. Said footage shows a blurry figure, small but lithe, the object of his study. He plays the film back again and closes his eyes, focusing on the words and sounds his subject makes. 

 

When he’s satisfied he opens his eyes and hits the spacebar to pause. A strained image of the boy’s wild-eyed face stares back. 

 

Behind the man, the others are arguing. He sighs longsufferingly and turns. 

 

“—so you thought you’d try to  _ kill him _ ? Do you have any idea how stupid that was, Hardy?” Connors is growling. 

 

The young ex-Hydra agent has her arms folded defensively and looks ready to murder  _ him _ as well. “Isn’t that’s what you keep me around for? To do your dirty work?”

 

“So kill Stark, not the Archetype! You could’ve put to waste years’ worth of research and planning!” Conners begins pacing, vibrating with frustration. 

 

Agent Hardy seats herself nonchalantly and inspects her nails. “You have the research you need now, don’t you? The kid works. The genetics thing worked. Can’t you do the project without him?”

 

“You think it’s so simple,” Connors sneers. “‘The genetics thing worked’”, he repeats derisively. “Do you have any idea what that boy is? He’s not only the first successful product of pioneering the fields of both bioprinting and automatic learning; he’s also potentially the first successful result of my personal lifelong studies in cross-species genetic engineering. Coded in his DNA is the very key to mankind’s evolution.”

 

“So, a lot of fancy words that boil down to ‘teenage Frankenstein monster with a spider-theme’. You got a Halloween kink to confess, doc?” 

 

A vein in Connors’ forehead bulges. He opens his mouth to yell some more, but his previously quiet partner finally decides to interrupt in a placating tone. 

 

“Curt, there’s no point in crying over spilled milk,” he says reasonably, placing a hand on the man’s white-coated shoulder. “I agree that the temporary loss of the Archetype is an unforeseen complication, but it’s not necessarily a setback. We can still move forward with a few adjustments.”

 

“Stark knows about the Bubble Shock plant, now, Norman,” Curt reminds him. “That aspect of the plan is irreparable.” 

 

“The boys on site reported the computer in the lab being hijacked too so he probably has plenty of evidence against Oscorp,” Hardy throws in unhelpfully, earning a glare from Curt.

 

Norman remains unruffled. “So we shut down the plant, recall the soda, wipe all further evidence from the server. Even if Stark makes his claim against Oscorp, all he’s got for evidence is a handful of files that-- for all anyone knows-- he made up himself to throw dirt at SI’s competition. The only proof he has is the Archetype, and somehow I don’t think he’ll bring attention to the boy anytime soon.”

 

“What makes you so sure?” Curt asks gruffly.

 

Norman turns his swivel chair ever so slightly so that his screen is in view again. In the video still pulled up, the blurry figure of Tony Stark looking at the child in concern is just visible. 

 

“Oh,” he breathes with a small smile, “for all his talk, the Man of Iron does have a heart. I for one am quite interested to see how that goes for him.”

 

…

 

_ “I have to poop!”  _ the whiny sing-song voice on the Stark pad says.  _ “Which kind of behavior is acceptable on the potty?” _

 

Peter swings his legs back and forth, listening to the quiet creaking the legs of the wooden chair beneath him make in response. He leans against the tabletop and considers his screen, where a cartoon girl is sitting on a toilet and looking at the thought bubble options surrounding her. After a moment, the game steps in to answer its own question by flashing a red arrow at the picture of a roll of toilet paper. He taps it.

 

“ _ You are great! _ ” the little girl voice encourages before going on. “ _ Now flush the toilet after using it.” _

 

Peter taps the blinking flusher icon. A tinny cheering noise congratulates him.

 

From across the counter, Rhodey scowls in disgust. “Does he have to do this at the breakfast table?” he asks.

 

“What, you don’t think it’s a good review for all of us?” Tony responds, not looking up from the coffeemaker. “I don’t know about you, but it’s making me feel pretty proud of myself. If one can master potty training, one can do anything. Now shush, it’s about to teach him how to wash his hands.”

 

“Did you watch it ahead of time or something?”

 

“Of course not; I’m just a genius at potty-time etiquette.”

 

The same windows that let in orangey sun-set rays the night before are now illuminating the large room with the golden light of a new day. First thing after collecting Peter from the guest bedroom, Tony presented him with a digital tablet and showed him how to turn it on and swipe through its various functions. Mainly he had it downloaded with ebooks and educational games for children. So far they had taught Peter the days of the week and the calendar months, the importance of looking both ways before crossing the street, and now proper bathroom hygiene. 

 

Tony told him it was vital to his Earthly survival that he learn as much from these sources as possible, and consequently he was being an apt student. 

 

“I can’t believe you got him that thing,” Rhodey mutters. “This is why you’re not a parent.”

 

“First of all, I’m still nobody’s parent. Second, even if I were, most parents have a bit more time to train their children,” Tony remarks as he takes a seat by Peter, steaming mug in hand. “I think this is fine as far as cramming goes.”

 

Peter sets down his Stark pad and glances at them fondly. The mealtime banter is familiar and tugs his thoughts back to the conversation of the previous night...

 

_ “Tony, you cannot just bring home stray kids!” Rhodes had said lowly, clearly not intending for Peter’s enhanced hearing to pick it up. “Seriously, man, what were you thinking?” _

 

_ “You know, Rhodes, I was really thinking, ‘hey, I think I’ll do some child nabbing today! Let me go look for one in the sketchy drink factory that Fury asked me to investigate for being fishy with ex-Hydra vibes but is actually a full-blown Oscorp conspiracy!’” He deadpanned, then lowered his voice to match his friend’s volume. “Obviously, things kind of escalated. What was I supposed to do, leave him?” _

 

_ “Woah, woah, woah, Hydra?” Rhodes’ tone got more serious. “Oscorp is mixed up with Hydra? How does the kid play into this?” _

 

_ “I’m not entirely sure, but…” Tony glanced at Peter, then nudged Rhodes to follow him out of the room. Peter could still hear them easily from the hallway over. _

 

_ “I took some files home and I’ve only just started in on them,” Tony continued when he was supposedly out of earshot. “It’s mostly confirming what I’ve figured out: the kid is enhanced. He’s an experiment of theirs. Grafted with 2% arachnid DNA and literally  _ grown _ , like, Helen-Cho-style-grown. No conception, no birth, no belly button; just a 3D-printed human being. They even zapped information into his brain to give him a head-start, hence why he speaks English.” _

 

_ “What, like they made his body using a Regeneration Cradle? Like Vision?” _

 

_ “Something like that. It’s a thing Hydra scientists were working on before they got shut down. Guess they were trying to level up from making super soldiers by just starting from scratch. Oscorp must’ve got their hands on it from an ex-agent and decided to play around with it.” _

 

_ “Okay, that’s... disturbing.” Tony huffed in agreement. “And what’d you say about his DNA? What does that mean, he’s 2%... spider?” _

 

_ “I mean, when I first found him he was hanging from the ceiling like his fingers secrete superglue. I haven’t figured out what the heck they planned to do with that, honestly. I’m guessing Dr. Curt Connors of Oscorp is in charge, since it’s public knowledge he’s been itching to mix animal and human genes for years. Probably got sick of hearing it was immoral and made himself a test subject using Hydra’s bioprinting instead. Peter is their archetype, AKA their first draft.” _

 

_ “And they did this all… under a soda factory… why?” Rhodes asked, sounding perplexed. _

 

_ Peter imagined Tony’s shoulders lifting in a shrug. “Your guess for that is as good as mine.” _

 

_ The men were quiet for a moment. Peter stared into his now-empty soup bowl, waiting.  _

 

_ “So, what now? You bust Oscorp and the kid becomes government property?”  _

 

_ Peter tensed. _

 

_ “No,” Tony said immediately. “You should’ve seen him earlier, Rhodey. He flipped at the idea of going into any kind of system. He needs some space to be a normal kid.” _

 

_ “But he’s not a normal kid, Tony. He can’t just go into foster care with civilian parents. How do you know he even knows what’s going on?” _

 

_ “Well, give him a sec, would ya? He’s only a baby. He just needs to learn a bit.” _

 

_ “And you’re gonna teach him.” Rhodey’s question is more like a skeptical statement.  _

 

_ “‘Some have greatness thrust upon them’,” Tony recited, upbeat once more. “I am ‘greatness’ and Petey-pie is ‘some’.” _

 

_ “Lucky him. So you’re a dad now?” _

 

Dad _. The word filled Peter with a longing he didn’t understand.  _

 

_ “Let’s just take one thing at a time, Rhodes.” It’s the same answer he gave Peter in the car. _

 

_ When they came back into the kitchen, Peter didn’t let on that he’d heard anything they said. He still stared at his smooth-skinned stomach for twenty minutes in the bathroom mirror after being left on his own that night. He still went back over the conversation a hundred times before falling asleep. _

 

“What’s up, kiddo?” Tony asks, interrupting Peter’s thoughts. “Done eating? You’re thinking pretty hard, there. Do you need to use the potty?”

 

“Tony,” Rhodey sighs.

 

“What, he just learned all about it!”

 

“Don’t let him bully you, Peter.”

 

Peter smiles a little at Rhodey then answers Tony. “No, thank you. And yes, I’m finished.”

 

Tony downed the last of his drink and set his mug down decisively. “Alrighty then! Science time.”

 

…

 

As Rhodey follows his lifelong friend and his new charge into the lab, he can’t help but notice how they gravitate to each other. 

 

Peter falls in step with Tony, looking around but not staying more than a few feet from the man. Tony doesn’t make it obvious, but he also checks to make sure the kid is close behind, even patting him on the back when he catches his gaze. 

 

“First thing first,” the genius says. “We gotta get that chip out. I’m gonna need you to hop up and take your shirt off, buddy.” He pats the metal counter and Peter obliges. 

 

“What chip?” Rhodey peers over his friend’s shoulder as he prods the kid’s head to the side and pokes at the nape of his neck. Then he sees for himself— a tiny square-shaped subcutaneous device is visible beneath the boy’s skin. 

 

“Probably a tracker, equipped with other goodies that we’d rather live without,” Tony answers offhandedly. “The problem is, how to remove it safely?”

 

“I don’t suppose he has a metabolism that likes sedatives.”

 

His friend sighs. “Probably not, but we can at least numb the surrounding skin. Peter? Can you lay down on your front for me?” 

 

The kid nods, shifting to do so. Rhodey catches sight of his navel-less front and mentally shudders. He’s also somewhat surprised to see that the apparently skinny teen is actually lean with muscle. 

 

“Will you hook me up to things?” the boy asks meekly, eyes shifting between them nervously. Rhodey feels a flash of amusement when Tony hurries to reassure him and the boy relaxes.  _ Not a dad, my butt _ .

 

“FRIDAY’s gonna show me what’s what via these fancy specs,” he’s telling the kid as he slips on a pair of Stark glasses. “You’ll feel a small sting when the local anesthetic goes in, but other that than it should be over in a sec. You’ll be back to your ebooks in no time.”

 

Rhodey settles into a chair nearby as the small procedure goes down. True to Tony’s word, it doesn’t take very long but the man is still extremely careful, muttering a conversation with FRIDAY as he goes and bandaging up the site on the kid’s neck gently once the chip has been removed and set on the table with a small  _ plink _ . 

 

“It feels weird,” Peter mumbles, touching his neck. “I can’t feel the skin. Why can’t I feel the skin?”

 

“It’ll wear off in an hour or two, I promise. The good news is, you’re a free man!” Tony points to the extricated device and Peter sits up and glares at it. 

 

It looks like the kind of microchip owners have placed in their pets, only bigger and more tricked out. It makes Rhodey’s stomach curl to see it and think of a human child being treated like an animal. 

 

Tony sets his glasses down and tosses the chip to the floor in front of his friend. “Would you do the honors, Rhodes?” 

 

They all let out a breath of relief when Rhodey lifts his shoe and smashes he device to broken pieces of tech. 

 

“And that brings us to the next item of business.” Tony’s gaze trails from his friend’s foot to the leg brace wrapped around it. “You said the braces wigged out yesterday?”

 

He nods and opens his mouth to explain, but FRIDAY cuts in over the speaker before he has a chance. 

 

“Boss, you have four unread texts and an incoming call from Miss Potts.”

 

The caught-red-handed look on Tony’s face is priceless. “I was supposed to call her back last night. Crap. Oh, crap.”

 

“Go, I’ll babysit,” Rhodey offers, smirking at his friend’s dirty look as he rushes out of the room. 

 

Peter is just pulling his shirt back on and he looks after Tony with an expression that reminds Rhodey of his 12-month-old niece’s distraught face when her mom leaves the room. Luckily, Peter doesn’t make like little Angie and throw a tear tantrum; he just looks up at Rhodey shyly and then drops his gaze to his lap and says nothing. 

 

“Hey, Peter,” he starts in a friendly tone. “I didn’t really introduce myself last night. I’m Colonel James Rhodes. You can call me Rhodey.” 

 

Peter looks up at him again. “Hi,” he whispers. 

 

Rhodey casts his mind around for get-to-know-you questions but realizes he can’t exactly ask ‘what’s your favorite color’ or ‘what do you like to do for fun’ when the kid probably doesn’t know the answers himself. Instead his gaze falls on the book Peter’s been carrying around since his bookcase-climbing expedition the previous evening. It’s stacked under his Stark pad on the chrome counter beside him. 

 

“What book you got there?” he asks, gesturing to it. 

 

Peter follows his gaze and slips the book out from under the Pad to show Rhodey. The cover says  _ The Life Works of Howard Stark _ .

 

Huh. “Howard Stark. Do you know who that is?”

 

Peter shakes his head. 

 

“That’s Tony’s dad.” On second thought, he clarifies, “A dad is the person who takes care of you. Howard Stark raised Tony Stark. Tony may not remember his dad too fondly, but I know they loved each other in their own emotionally-constipated way.”

 

The boy takes that information in and looks back at the book anew. “Where is Howard Stark now?” he asks. 

 

Rhodey hesitates. He’s glad Tony left the room for this. “He died several years ago in a car crash.”

 

“So who takes care of Tony Stark now?” 

 

“Uh… well, now he’s an adult so he takes care of himself. Like, he has other people, of course, like Pepper, his fiancé, and me, and other friends to watch his back, but mostly he’s independent.”

 

Peter’s brow furrows. “He’s alone?” 

 

Rhodey thinks of the first time his friend had a panic attack at the restaurant, how he blew it off like nothing and retreated into himself. He thinks about the haunted look in his eyes when he came back from Siberia and refused to talk about what happened with Cap. He thinks about the way he buries himself in technology and suits and tries desperately to throw water on the enormous guilt complex burning him up inside. Pepper has helped him a lot but even she doesn’t understand him a lot of the time. Rhodey is there as often as he can be but there’s only so much you can’t do for someone who bottles up their pain. 

 

“Yeah, sometimes,” he answers honestly. 

 

Peter looks sad. 

 

“Anyway.” Rhodey sits up, suddenly chipper, trying to dismiss the topic. “You’re into science I assume? What with the book and the t-shirt?” 

 

Peter smiles and nods, then looks down at Rhodey’s leg braces. “Did Tony make those for you?” 

 

“Yup. He’s a genius and a great friend.”

 

“Can I…” Peter hesitates, but at Rhodey’s encouraging look, he goes on. “Can I look at them?” 

 

...

  
  


Tony hangs up the phone and drops his face into his hands with the beginning of a headache pounding in his temples. He’d told Pepper everything in detail and she took it about how he expected. She won’t be home for another couple days but demanded he behave till then. 

 

By ‘behave’, he supposes she means ‘no more taking home children’. Because apparently, nobody seems to believe him when he claims that was an accident.

 

Strolling back into the lab with a couple bottles of water (he was gone longer than he expected and one thing he knows about children is you gotta water them regularly… or is that plants?), he expects to see the pair he left behind sitting in awkward silence or at most making small talk. 

 

What he didn’t expect to see was Peter prattling off excitedly in mechanic-speak by Rhodey’s feet while his friend laughs and nudges him like a pair of old buddies. 

 

“Kid, honestly, I think you made them better than they were before!” Rhodey is saying. Peter glows at the praise. 

 

“What’s going on here?” Tony asks, a hand on his hip and he slaps the water bottles on the counter. “There is no merry-making allowed in my lab other than my own. Especially not in my absence.”

 

Rhodey turns to him without so much as a ‘hello, glad to see you survived your phone call’ and goes, “Tony, his kid is a genius. He fixed  _ and _ upgraded my braces in like twenty minutes.”

 

“Mr. Stark would have done the same,” Peter says quickly, moving back for the man to stand up. 

 

Tony leans down the inspect the gears as Rhodey bends his joints and takes a few demonstrative steps. “Well, I’ll be darned. Not bad, kid.”

 

“Good timing, too, since I gotta be heading out here in a minute,” Rhodey admits. He ruffles Peter’s hair and smiles at the kid. “Thanks for your help, squirt.”

 

_ And thus the genetic experiment won an army vet’s heart,  _ Tony thinks. 

 

“Fine, get out of here,” he tells his friend. “We have plenty of things to do with our time, right, kid?”

 

The bright-eyed look he gets in response is enough to make him forget his stressors for a moment.

 

…

 

The week that comes to pass is surprisingly one of the best Tony’s had in a long time… Mainly because it’s spent corrupting an impressionable youth with nothing to do but follow him around. 

 

Peter exhausts the content Tony downloaded for him in no time, and actually starts to search, download and read things on his own. By the end of the first whole day together Tony decides to test the boy’s intelligence with a few developmental tests. 

 

The results place him at a college reading-level with an IQ near Tony’s own. He’s got practically a photographic memory, too, sometimes reciting lines of his readings back to Tony. 

 

His cultural understanding is obviously quite lacking, but Tony introduces him to Netflix and sets him to ‘studying’ a couple hours every day while he does other things. When Peter still has questions (and he has quite a few), he doesn’t hesitate to ask. 

 

Tony spits out a glass of milk mid-swallow one morning when the kid asks him what it means to twerk. He can’t stop laughing enough to answer. 

 

To avoid meetings and visitors, Tony tells anyone looking for him that he’s got the flu. He knows he can’t hide forever but he can’t take the kid out just yet, and soon enough he’s forming a plan to help them both out. It requires his wife-to-be’s approval, however. 

 

The night Pepper comes home is late the next Friday. Peter had requested an introduction to Star Wars (he hasn’t forgotten Ned or his t-shirt) so Tony has taken the liberty to set up a full-on movie night in the living room, popcorn and blankets and all. 

 

When his significant other walks in at around 1AM, tired and travel-logged and less-than-excited to clean up Tony’s messes, she’s caught off-guard by the sight of him shushing her and pointing to a 15-year-old (or what looks like a 15-year-old) asleep with his head on Tony’s arm and snoring light little kitten snores. 

 

Her heart melts on the spot. 

 

“Did you know,” she whispers, running a hand through Tony’s hair and giving him a kiss on the scalp from behind, “You’ve never been more attractive to me than right at this moment?” 

 

“Miss Potts,” he greets her in a mock-flustered voice. 

 

She knocks his head forward lightly and turns her attention to Peter. “This is him, then.”

 

“Yup.”

 

“What are we planning to do with him?”

 

“I was thinking high school,” he admits. At her skeptical look, he explains, “The people who made him know he’s here. I can’t be with him 24/7, Pep. It’s a way to hide him in plain sight until we know what else to do. Plus he’s plenty smart enough to get by in classes.”

 

She thinks it over. “Do you really think he’s ready for that? Didn’t you say he asks a lot of questions about basic things? Doesn’t sound like he’d blend in very well.”

 

“Oh, he won’t be alone.” He smiles. “I know exactly what high school to put him in.”

 

…

 

When Tony carries the sleepy lump to bed, there’s a moment when he settles the boy in the sheets that Peter wakes just slightly and mumbles. “-ony?” 

 

“That’s my name, don’t wear it out.”

 

Then an unexpected question that throws the billionaire for a loop: “‘re you my dad?”

 

Tony takes so long trying to decide what to say that Peter falls back asleep before anything else is said. 

  
  
  
  
  



	5. Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Welcome to Midtown High, Peter Potts,” Ms. Warren offers. “Where are you joining us from?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((Why do I always update in the middle of the freaking night??))  
> ...Anyway. In honor of many of you getting out of school for the summer recently... here is an insecure spider-boy going to school for his first time. save him.

It’s been two weeks since the group trip to Bubble Shock when Michelle Jones gets a call from an unknown number. It’s 6:30 on a Monday morning and she’s kind of busy at the moment with not caring about anything before the sun rises. Thus, she stares at her phone for a second before letting it go to voicemail. 

 

The fifth time the same number calls in just as many minutes, she sighs and accepts her fate of being prematurely made to interact with the world. She hits the accept call button, mentally preparing to correct a wrong-number caller or get a telemarketer off her case.

 

However, when the voice of a billionaire she recently became acquainted with speaks on the other end, he doesn’t even wait for her to say ‘hello’.

 

“Jeez, kid, I went through the trouble of tracking down your number and you don’t even pick up the first million times I call? I’m hurt, I really am. Did the--”

 

She hangs up on him.

 

A trip to the kitchen and a granola bar later, her blood sugar is acceptably raised to a slightly-more-prepared-to-deal-with-unexpected-crap level, and she picks up her predictably still-buzzing phone from where she dumped it on her bed and hits accept again.

 

“This better be important,” she says blandly.

 

“Well, hello to you too!” Tony Stark huffs, sounding both impressed and annoyed. “I had no idea you would be such a ray of sunshine about this, my gosh.”

 

“I’m not a morning person.”

 

“Clearly. But if you’d let me get to the point before, I might’ve been able to tell you that yes, yes this is, in fact, very important. Remember that time we rescued a spider-kid from a shady organization?”

 

Michelle sits on the edge of her bed. “He’s a spider-kid, now?”

 

“Oh, right, that was a post-your-involvement discovery; whatever, you know who I’m talking about, right?”

 

She just raises an eyebrow, which of course he doesn’t see. He takes her silence as permission to continue.

 

“Of course you do, you practically threatened my life on the premise of getting him help. Anyway, Michelle Jones, listen up: I have a mission for you and Nedd-o. It appears our partnership was so good the first time around that the universe demands an encore.”

 

…

 

“This… is literally the greatest thing that has ever happened to me,” Ned says out loud to himself.

 

He’s standing by the flagpole outside Midtown, watching as a suave car pulls up to the curb beside him. The driver’s side is facing him and a tinted window rolls down to reveal the face of Tony Stark, red-lense sunglasses in place and generally radiating coolness. He looks right at Ned and makes a head gesture to invite him over.

 

Ned does so, his knees feeling weak.

 

“G-good morning, sir,” he stutters, trying to remember how he staved off a fanboy heart-attack the last time he was in this man’s presence. It should be easier now that he knew this encounter was coming ahead of time, right? Right?? He tries to compose himself and tries a lower, more cool-and-confidential tone: “I’m fully debriefed and ready for the mission.”

 

Mr. Stark tips his glasses down to his nose and looks past Ned. “Where’s MJ?” he asks.

 

“Uh… MJ?”

 

“Michelle Jones-- ‘M.J.’,” the Avenger explains casually. “If she doesn’t use that as a nickname already, she should.”

 

Ned gapes. “Oh. Right. Um, she showed me the class schedule you sent her, and since I have the same homeroom as, uh, Peter, it makes sense that I start the day with him, you know? Cuz Michelle and I don’t really hang out with each other outside class that much so it’d be weird if we started now  _ and _ had a new person with us all of a sudden. She said you said we don’t want to draw lots of attention to him, so she said we should, like, take turns or something.”

 

Tony listens to the spiel with an unchanging expression, then glances behind him in the car and says something Ned can’t hear, presumably to a backseat passenger. Ned waits, shifting from foot to foot nervously. 

 

“Do you think I need a code name too?” he asks, suddenly even more excited as Mr. Stark cuts the engine off. “Because I’m thinking, since I’m pretty good with computers, I could be ‘Guy in the Chair’, you know, like in movies how there’s always one guy overlooking a bunch of monitors, telling the other guys what’s happening because there’s screens around him and--”

 

His rambling cuts off as Mr. Stark opens his car door and steps out smoothly. He eyes Ned with a hint of amusement. 

 

“Woah, Nedd-o,” he tells him off-handedly, “I don’t think this mission really requires a ‘guy in the chair’ just yet. Let’s just see if we can handle a normal day of school first, yeah?” 

 

He turns his back to the teen and moves to open the back door to the car, and Ned can’t help but crane his head curiously to watch as the other occupant slides out. 

 

The boy-- who he knows is apparently named Peter now-- is dressed in an outfit Ned recognizes from their thrift store adventure (ie, the NASA shirt with a flannel thrown over it). His hair, which was unruly curls before, is now somewhat tamed and combed back. As he hefts a backpack strap over one shoulder and turns to survey the schoolyard with wide eyes, throat bobbing with a nervous swallow, he looks like any other kid being dropped off their first day at a new school. 

 

Peter’s eyes shift to Ned and it’s hard to tell who’s more jittery. The former smiles in recognition and offers a shy wave. 

 

Ned smiles back and extends a fist bump. “What’s up, man?” 

 

The kid eyes Ned’s fist, glances at Tony, then hesitantly brings his own fist forward to tap Ned’s.

 

Ned thinks of Michelle telling him-- very vaguely, since that’s all she had been told-- about the origins of the boy before him. He isn’t sure he understands it fully. There’s a tidal wave of questions roiling beneath the surface, but he manages to hold his tongue. For now.

 

Mr. Stark claps a hand on Peter’s shoulder. “Right! Well, kiddo,” he starts, speaking to Peter but drawing the attention of both boys, “it’s gonna be a good day. Nerd school, you’ll fit right in! Remember the things we talked about?”

 

Peter nods. “No sticking to walls; don’t do anything stupid; ask Ned or Michelle if I have any questions,” he recites. 

 

Tony gives his shoulder another pat before placing both hands in his pockets. “You got it.” Then he turns to Ned and asks, “What time is it done again?”

 

“Classes end at 2:45, sir, but Michelle and I have Academic Decathlon practice after school till 4.”

 

The man purses his lips. “Right, right… well, I have a meeting with someone around that time anyway, so just keep him with you here till I finish, deal? Michelle has my number. I’ll call when I’m on my way.” 

 

Ned gives a confirmation at the same time that behind them, the school warning bell rings and lingering students start shuffling hurriedly toward the building.

 

“We better go…” Ned says, edging toward the school. 

 

Tony makes to get back in the car, but Peter reaches for his hand and stops him, brow creased and eyes pleading. “I’m feeling anxious,” he whispers.

 

The man turns and takes the hand on his sleeve into his own, giving it a light squeeze. “Deep breaths, kiddo. I’ll see you later today, okay? You’re just gonna go be a normal kid for a few hours while I figure some stuff out. No big deal.”

 

They look at each other for another moment before Peter takes a breath and lets go, nodding. Ned looks back and forth between them. Something about the dynamic between them has changed since the last time he saw them together. 

 

“Bye,” Tony calls, settling into the driver’s seat and slipping his shades back on. In another second his car is speeding back off into the street. The two teens left behind look at each other and Ned leads the way into a place dreaded by teens and adults alike: high school.

 

…

 

“Peter Potts?”

 

Peter raises his hand like he’s seen the other kids doing during roll call. “Here!”

 

Ms. Warren pauses in her name-calling and appraises him with her stern, no-nonsense gaze. “Welcome to Midtown High, Mr. Potts,” she offers. “Where are you joining us from?”

 

The hairs on Peter’s neck prickle as all eyes turn to him. He tries to ignore them, recalling the story Mr. Stark taught him.

 

“I’m originally from Brooklyn but my parents are on a research trip so I’m staying with my aunt and uncle currently,” he states. “We don’t know how long it’ll be for, so they thought it was okay to start me at school here in the meantime.”

 

“Geez, nobody asked for your life story,” he hears a male voice from across the room mutter sarcastically. A few people snicker. They quiet with a glare from Ms. Warren, but Peter’s cheeks still burn in shame. Did he do something wrong already?

 

“That’s Flash, just ignore him,” Ned whispers reassuringly from the desk behind Peter. “His head is huge cuz he thinks he’s the smartest kid here.” 

 

Peter nods, trying to feel comforted. It doesn’t help that he doesn’t know what it means by ‘his head is huge’. So many tiny phrases like this are still hard to decipher for the boy.

 

Throughout the last week, Tony and Pepper had taken turns practicing social interactions with him. Much like with Rhodey, he was shy at first but took to Pepper readily when she proved herself a friend. She even took him on small outings to public places and demonstrated how to speak with strangers. 

 

At first, being in groups of people made his senses go haywire. He wanted to look at everything and everyone all at once and he kept having to resist the urge to crawl up the side of a building to distance himself from the noise (since Tony had explained that that was  _ not _ a normal human thing to do). With some practice, he was getting better at filtering out irrelevant sights and sounds and focusing on one thing at a time. 

 

It doesn’t stop the overwhelming newness of the current situation from putting him on the edge of panic right now, though. He guesses this is probably not a problem the normal kids have to deal with. 

 

For the first time since meeting Tony, he feels very much on his own.

 

He understands that he’s different-- there’s 2% spider in his DNA that’s apparently not supposed to be there, after all. But it frustrates him, not knowing what parts he is allowed to show and what parts he has to hide. Overall, he just wants to be good and make Mr. Stark proud of him because... even though he hasn’t admitted it out loud, he’s harboring a secret hope that if he can prove himself capable, he’ll keep letting him stay. 

 

Because Peter knows that without a normal human birth, he is alone. His only connection is the factory he came from, and he’d decided before he’d even left there that he was  _ never _ going back. He also knows from what Rhodey told him that Tony is lonely, so... The words Tony said to him when they met (what feels like years ago to the boy’s fast-maturing mind) in a dingy underground bathroom come to mind: “ _ Maybe we can help each other. _ ”

 

_ But not if I’m not good enough _ , Peter thinks with an edge of discouragement.

 

His mini internal crisis is interrupted when roll-call ends and Ms. Warren stands to address to class. She strides to the whiteboard and begins writing out an equation.

 

“Okay, so,” she begins in an attention-commanding voice, “last night’s homework. Anyone do it?”

 

There’s a chorus of non-commital mumbles from the class.

 

Diagram drawn, she turns. “This was the last problem in the assignment and based on the distraught emails I got from a few of you, I know you have questions. Would anyone who actually solved this care to show the class how it’s done?”

 

A hand shoots up almost before she’s done speaking. Ms. Warren lifts her hand in a summoning esture and the volunteer stands, strolling to the front of the room confidently. Peter recognizes him as boy who spoke earlier, whom Ned told him to ignore.

 

“It’s a simple calculation of acceleration between points A and B,” he begins, selecting and uncapping a dry-erase marker. The strong chemical smell of the pen burns Peter’s nose even from several feet away and he flinches. The movement draws Flash’s attention and he looks Peter up and down with a small smirk, directing his next words to him as though teaching something extremely simple to someone extremely stupid. “...So, clearly, we want to find the product of sine of the angle and gravity divided by the mass.”

 

“Nope,” Ms. Warren interrupts, popping her ‘p’, startling Flash. “You’re off-track already. Anybody know where he went wrong?”

 

The class is silent, nobody daring to speak up.

 

Peter looks the equation over thoughtfully. “Mass cancels out,” he muses aloud.

 

The teacher looks at him. “What was that, Peter?”

 

Eyes are on him again and he shrinks a little in his seat. “Um…” he casts a glance at Ned. The other boy’s eyes are wide and he shrugs. Peter looks timidly back at the board and speaks up. “I said, mass cancels out... so it’s just gravity times sine.”

 

“Very good,” Ms. Warren approves. “Wanna come show us the rest?” She takes the marker from Flash and offers it to Peter. 

 

He complies, trying to ignore both the sharp stench of the marker and the glare he can feel Flash giving him for the rest of the hour.

 

…

 

“ _ Hi, I’m Captain America. Whether you’re a student or a soldier… there’s one thing that will always give you an edge: A hot lunch... _ ”

 

It’s noon at Midtown High and Peter watches the mounted screen with fascination. 

 

“Who is that?” he asks Ned in awe.

 

“You don’t have to watch those,” a new voice informs him. Looking away from the charismatic man on the TV, he sees Michelle setting her tray down on a table adjacent to theirs. “I’m pretty sure that guy’s a war criminal now.”

 

“Dude!” Ned greets her enthusiastically. “Oh, my gosh, you’ll never guess what happened this morning. Peter freaking  _ schooled _ Flash in trig! And before that, Tony Stark came and--”

 

“Shh!” the girl interrupts, miming a hand slice across her throat.

 

Ned lowers the volume of his voice self-consciously. “Right, um… Before that, Peter’s… ‘uncle’ dropped him off and he asked where you were but like he called you ‘MJ’. Tony Stark gave you a freaking nickname, how sick is that?”

 

Michelle takes a bite from her pear, looking thoughtful. “Hmm, MJ… not bad.”

 

Peter pokes at his own food, suspicious about the chemical scents of the cafeteria kitchen it came from. Around the room, thousands of sounds and smells argue for his attention, but he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath to tune it out.

 

“Dangit, my mom always puts the thermos lid on too tight,” Ned mutters next to him. He opens his eyes to see the boy struggling with a metal container. 

 

“Can I help?” Peter offers. Ned sighs, defeated, and slides the thermos toward him gratefully. 

 

Expecting it to be hard, the boy gives the top piece a firm twist. And to his credit, the lid does come off; only it goes flying across the room like a high-speed frisbee and warm soup sloshes out onto the table, startling Peter so bad he jumps to his feet away from the table, tense and alert.

 

“Holy crap,” Ned whispers. Michelle snorts.

 

Behind Peter, someone starts slow clapping. 

 

All three turn to see Flash and one of his friends approaching. “Wow, look at you!” Flash drawls. “Don’t know your own strength, do you, Petey!” 

 

“Mind if we sit?” the other boy asks, but it’s not so much a question as an announcement. Peter shrinks back into his seat as the newcomers settle themselves on either side of him on the bench, subtly shutting Ned and Michelle out of the conversation.

 

“This is my friend, Jason, by the way.” Flash nods to the boy Peter doesn’t know. “I told him about your stunt in math today, man. You’re quite the Little Einstein, aren’t you?”

 

“I-I… I don’t… I mean...” Peter stutters. His danger sense isn’t exactly going off, but he still feels oddly distressed by this attention.

 

Jason is noticeably taller and bulkier than Flash. He smiles down at Peter like a shark at a minnow. “Don’t be shy, man. Obviously you’re something special, right? Say, you wouldn’t happen to have gym next period, would you?”

 

“He doesn’t have gym in his schedule,” Ned interjects, leaning around Flash in annoyance. “Leave him alone, guys.”

 

“Hey, we’re just trying to welcome a new classmate!” Flash defends innocently. “And wait, no gym? That’s weird, I’m pretty sure Midtown requires all four years of P.E. credit for graduation. How’d you get out of that one, Petey?” 

 

“I h-have a heart condition,” Peter mumbles, keeping his eyes on the table. “I’m not allowed to do vigorous exercise.”

 

The excuse is what Tony conjured up for the school to let Peter out of having to change in a locker room full of horny teenage boys… Not only would his lack of a belly-button be sure to raise unwanted scrutiny, but the boy’s handle on his advanced strength is still unstable, as the puddle of soup coating their table testifies. Letting him lose in a gym where he could potentially out himself as an enhanced is a risk neither he nor Tony want to take.

 

“Aw, poor little guy,” Jason croons in mock-sympathy. “Good thing swimming’s a pretty chill activity, then, right, Flash?”

 

They exchange a knowing grin. “Yeah, man, I’m having a pool party at my house this weekend! It’s gonna be lit, you should totally come.”

 

“‘Lit’…?” Peter repeats blankly. 

 

“Lit,” Flash repeats, “as in, dope.”

 

Peter squints at them. “O… kay…”

 

Michelle chooses this moment to stand and come around the opposite end of the table so she’s facing the boys. “Up,” she says firmly, making an impatient shooing gesture with both hands at Flash and Jason. When they just stare at her, bewildered, she repeats with more force, “Up.” It sounds like she’s commanding a couple of stubborn dogs.

 

The intruders glance at each other before climbing off the bench.

 

“Think about it, man,” Flash tells Peter before walking away. “Saturday at three. Everyone who’s anyone will be there. Here’s the invite.” He reaches into his pocket and shoves a piece of paper into Peter’s hands. 

 

“He can do better,” Michelle informs them. “Way better, honestly.”

 

“You are such a freak, Michelle Jones,” Jason mutters over his shoulder as they leave. 

 

The girl stares stonily after them. “It’s MJ,” she says to nobody in particular.

 

…

 

Academic Decathlon starts out as boring part of the day for Peter but it doesn’t stay that way for long.

 

He isn’t apart of the club which means he can’t participate, so he sits alone on the stage while MJ and Ned and the others sit quizzing one another in a circle of chairs at the other end of the gym. All Peter can do is count the minutes til Tony comes and saves him from this place.

 

It’s not that he hasn’t liked school so far-- he does. He likes the classes and the learning and the new experiences. It’s all good to him. What’s  _ not _ good is that he keeps making social mistakes and reminding himself that he’s so, so different. It makes him feel like an astronaut on the ocean floor: completely out of place. 

 

Restless, he stands and wanders behind the stage curtains. Backstage there are a few closets and doors, one of which is open to the reveal an exit to the back of the school, allowing fresh air and distant sounds of traffic and birds to flow into the gym. 

 

A few bins of odd props and costumes catch his attention. He paws through them, occasionally holding an item up to himself in the nearby mirror to guess its use. Among them are exotic items such as a pink feather boa, a broad pirate hat, and a large Mexican poncho. He shrugs off his flannel and slips the latter item over his head, giggling at his reflection as the bright red and blue fabric engulfs his small frame. 

 

At the bottom of one crate, something catches his eye: a plastic Iron Man mask. He takes it into his hands and stares, remembering how Tony’s suit of metal-- including a mask like this-- had encased him in their fight against the woman who attacked them. He only vaguely remembers Tony’s part of the battle, since Peter himself had been doubled over in pain at the time… he shudders at the memory.

 

On a whim, he lifts the thing over his head. The eye slits limit his range of vision but he doesn’t care much because when he sees himself in the mirror he suddenly feels as comforted as if Tony were there with him. 

All of a sudden, his sensitive ears pick up on a cry in the wind:

 

_ “Leave me alone!” _

 

Peter perks up, looking around. He pads over to the still-open back door.

 

Distantly, he hears the voice again. “ _ Stop, please… Help, somebody _ !”

 

He doesn’t even hesitate before racing outside, the red-and-blue poncho and Iron Man mask still in place.


	6. Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony steps out of his suit and whips out his phone, shoving it into Peter’s hands. “Look at this, kid. Why don’t you explain this to me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Warning, this chapter contains: attempted kidnapping by an implied pedophile*
> 
> Dedicated to Buckets-Of-Stars. Congrats grad!! Also, FYI, she’s the one who encouraged me to post this story and pre-reads chapters for me on occasion so heck yeah she’s amazing. check her out.

“Sounds like you’ve had quite the fortnight.”

 

“I mean, you could say that.”

 

“So this Archetype kid--”

 

“Peter.”

 

Fury raises his eyebrows. “...Peter. What exactly do you plan to do with him?”

 

The two men fall silent for a moment. Tony drums the side of his empty cup with restless fingers, glances around the coffee shop idly. At this point in the afternoon there aren’t too many people coming in for their caffeine fix and it’s the perfect setting for an under-the-table-style recon with a super spy.

 

Technically he’s supposed to report to Ross now. but. Ha. Screw that.

 

Having explained everything, Tony knows Fury will get his people uncovering dirt on Oscorp within the hour. The question Fury just posed, however… he’s been hoping Fury knew a solution.

 

“Honestly? You tell me,” he finally responds, setting his cup down and splaying both hands on the table. “He’s a potentially dangerous kid. But he’s also completely innocent. He doesn’t deserve to become a child soldier or lab rat, but giving him to a normal family isn’t an option either. Don’t suppose you know of an adoption agency for a situation like this?”

 

This is where Fury’s supposed to say, ‘actually, I know of just such a place to take him in. Let me get them on the phone.’ Instead, he throws a curve ball by plucking an idea straight from the thoughts Tony’s been trying to suppress more and more ever since he carried a sleepy Peter to bed:

 

“Why don’t you just keep him?”

 

Tony shifts uncomfortably. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea. I wouldn’t want to infect him with my ‘textbook narcissism’.”

 

The director’s eye rolls at the reference. “Tony, you’ve upgraded your armor a lot through the years but what you might not have noticed is the man inside has had a few changes as well.”

 

“Wow, wait. Are you trying to be nice to me? Is that what that was? Fury, I’m blushing! In reality, though, I wouldn’t exactly call the addition of crippling PTSD and anxiety an upgrade.”

 

“Let me put it a different way and see if that helps.” Fury leans forward, unaffected by Tony’s dry humor. “He’s blank as a newborn and completely human, no matter his origin. It follows that he, like all infants, formed a bond with the first trustworthy adult he met. As far as he knows, you are his parent.”

 

“That’s only a thing animals do. That’s not a human thing,” Tony scoffs, trying to ignore how the words send a thrill of unidentifiable emotions through him.

 

“Regardless: you found him, you fed him, you got him clothes. Follow that up by giving him away and you’ll saddle him with abandonment issues for the rest of his life, wherever the heck that ends up being. You want him to be normal so bad? You’re his only chance, Stark.”

 

He lets that sink in. “Well, crap,” Tony mutters.

 

“Unless,” Fury draws out the word sarcastically, “you’d rather share him with Ross. I’m sure he’d accept the kid as a nice early Christmas gift.”

 

It's the billionaire's turn to roll his eyes. “It’s not like the kid is getting into vigilantism or anything. He can barely stand being alone, right now.”

 

His phone buzzes in his pocket and he slips it out, frowning at the caller ID. “One sec,” he says, turning. “What up, MJ? ...Wait, slow down. What do you mean, you _lost_ him?”

 

He stands suddenly, reaching for his car keys. “Have you checked the school bathrooms? ...Okay… Okay, fine, just keep looking around. I’m coming now.” He hangs up, flustered, muttering, “You had _one_ job, guys...”

 

Fury smirks at him. “You were saying?”

 

…

 

Bennett Brant was _not_ having a good day.

 

His big sister Betty was supposed to pick him up after school but she was late again. Again! Her stupid film club met after school so much that he was practically the last to leave Midtown Elementary almost every day. Having forgotten his lunch at home today, he was starving and tired and _not_ in the mood to wait. His school wasn’t that far from Midtown Tech, and if she thought it was embarrassing that she had to pick him up, imagine how embarrassed she’d be when he showed up at _her_ school and told her off in front of her friends. That would serve her right for blowing him off!

 

And that’s what he set off to do, not paying attention to anything but the thought of that no-doubt priceless look she’d have on her face when she saw him.

 

He feels pretty good about his decision till he makes it to an alley a couple blocks from the high school. It's a shortcut, as opposed to going around on the street side. His grumbling stomach urges him to take it without a second thought. He doesn’t notice the figure that’s been following about fifteen feet behind him for the past twenty minutes, and that’s why he’s so surprised when he’s mid-alley and hears someone call his name from behind.

 

When he spins around and sees that it’s one of his teachers from the school he just left, he’s even more surprised.

 

“Mr. Westcott? What are you doing here?” he asks, backtracking to meet the man.

 

“You shouldn’t be all alone on the street like this Bennett,” his teacher tells him, though in spite of the chastising words, he seems almost happy. “Let me give you a ride home.”

 

Something about the way the man is smiling at him makes Bennett’s gut twist nervously. Mr. Westcott has always freaked him out for some reason. He's super unnecessarily touchy with him at school and he feels uneasy being alone with him all of a sudden.

 

“Th-that’s okay. My, um, my sister will be w-waiting for me,” he stutters, taking a step back, even as he man steps forward.

 

“Your sister always picks you up at your school, Bennett. She doesn’t know where you are right now.”

 

The fact that he knows that just freaks Bennett out more and his heart starts beating faster with fear. The 10-year-old backs up another step, only for his teacher to latch onto his wrist and corner him between a dumpster and the wall.

 

“Leave me alone!” Bennett yells, pulling to get free.

 

“You’re gonna come home with me like a good boy, Bennett,” Westcott tells him in a scolding tone, reaching for something in his coat.

 

“Stop, please…” Bennett tries again. His eyes widen when he sees the man bring out a pocket knife and he screams as loud as he can, “Help, somebody!”

 

“Shut your mouth or I’ll cut you up here and now,” the man growls, shaking him, his friendly facade gone. Bennett whimpers. He is light-headed with fear, having no choice but to let the man lead him back down the alley.

 

_I should’ve stayed at school_ , he thinks, his lip trembling.

 

“Hey!”

 

The man and his captive spin around at the new voice that echoes after them. The owner of said voice is pretty much the last sight either of them expected to see:

 

A person in an over-sized red-and-blue shawl stands a few feet away, his fists clenched and his stance defensive. Any clues as to his age or identity are masked by a cheap plastic Iron Man mask.

 

“What the crap?” Mr. Westcott grunts, looking him over incredulously. He pulls Bennett tighter to him and raises his knife. “What do _you_ want, freak?”

 

The person’s head tilts like he’s taking in the situation. “What are you doing with him?” he asks Mr. Westcott. His voice sounds young, but he's not backing down. Bennett feels a flash of hope.

 

“He’s crazy! Help, help me please!” he cries, tears leaking out of his eyes.

 

Mr. Westcott knocks him on the head with the fist of his knife-holding hand. “Shut it,” he hisses. The boy's head spins and what happens next is so fast that he misses it.

 

One second, he is being held painfully tight by his teacher-turned-kidnapper; the next, he is hitting the ground on his hands and knees, gasping and crawling away as the sounds of the older man yelling echo around the alley. When he turns, he sees that Mr. Westcott is pressed face-first into the dirt, arms twisted behind him by the weirdly-dressed stranger.

 

“Are you okay?” Bennett’s rescuer asks, his foot still pressed into Mr. Westcott’s back. He must be very strong because the man is way bigger and taller than him and yet he still struggles uselessly under the stranger’s hold.  

 

“Oh my gosh, oh my gosh,” Bennett sputters. He yanks his phone out of his pocket and dials 9-1-1 with shaking fingers, trying to stay calm as the operator comes on the line. “H-hello? Um, my teacher just tried to kidnap me! I’m in an alley behind Midtown Tech… no, I’m safe now, this random guy came and saved me. He’s holding my teacher down right now… O-okay. Please hurry!”

 

He hangs up, taking a deep breath and wiping at his face. This day _sucks._

 

“The police are gonna be here in a few minutes,” he tells the strange man when he’s gotten control of himself. He looks into the eye slits of the Iron Man mask curiously. “Who are you anyway? Are you… are you a superhero?”

 

The person seems to consider that, but before he says anything, Bennett gasps in excitement.

 

“Can I take a selfie with you? Oh, my gosh, Betty will be _so_ jealous if I get a selfie with a _superhero_!”

 

Soon enough the police arrive and relieve the stranger of his hold on Mr. Westcott, handcuffing him and leading him away to a cop car. One of the officers takes Bennett aside to ask him some questions about what happened, but when Bennett looks around for the man who rescued him, he finds that he’s disappeared as suddenly as he arrived.

 

Bennett looks at the new picture on his phone wonderingly. He sets it as his screen lock photo.

 

No way would Betty make him wait after school again.

 

...

 

Tony is going out of his mind.

 

His brain has conjured up a million and one images of Peter in a metal cage, Peter heavily sedated and being marked up for vivisection on a table, Peter alone and scared and waiting for his ‘dad’ to find him...

 

He's sent the other two teens home hours ago and has been scoping the city in a suit til the sky’s turning gold with a sunset when he gets a call from his head of security and answers, hoping against hope that Peter has turned up at the Tower.

 

Turns out, that's kind of the case.

 

“In a tree?” he asks Happy again, to make sure he heard right. He’s already changing directions for home.

 

“Yeah, he’s just sitting in one of the branches,” the man’s voice confirms, sounding  as bewildered as Tony feels. Though Tony also feels a heck-ton of relief as well, considering the little bug made his way home after all. “I’m pretty sure it’s the same kid you had with you at the Tower all week. Pepper’s brother’s kid, right?”

 

“Right,” Tony confirms. He hasn’t had a chance to telling Happy the real story, so that’s what’s gotten around to the staff. “Right, uh, I’ll go get him. Thanks for letting me know, Hap.”

 

He doesn’t know how he would’ve found this kid if Happy hadn’t seen him chilling in the greenery outside the tower via a security cam. He’s more than a little ticked when he touches down outside said tree and retracts his face plate, looking up. _Don't be like Howard, don't be like Howard..._ part of his brain reminds him as his frustration surges.

 

“Peter. What are you doing.” His voice is deadly calm.

 

The boy in question is, in fact, crouched on a branch that’s way too high up for anyone to believe he climbed it. Anyone who doesn’t know he has sticky fingers, that is. He stares down at Tony with wide eyes so full of joyful relief that Tony’s anger falters. “Mr. Stark!” he calls happily, quickly spider-ing his way down the tree. He looks like he wants to go for a hug, but upon seeing Tony’s stern expression, he falters. “What’s wrong?”

 

“What’s wrong? _What’s wrong_ ?” Tony repeats in disbelief. “Where the _heck_ have you been is what’s wrong!” The genius steps out of his suit and whips out his phone, shoving it into Peter’s hands. “Look at this, kid. Why don’t you explain this to me.”

 

Peter blinks down at the screen. It’s open to a web page titled _Breaking News with the Daily Bugle_. The top story was posted only an hour ago by one Elizabeth Brant Sr., a reporter for the newspaper who details her youngest son’s attempted kidnap and mysterious rescue earlier that day. An iPhone selfie of a blonde boy smiling and holding up a peace sign next to a person in an Iron Man mask is the cover photo.

 

“Uh… that’s not me?” Peter tries.

 

“Really. This right here, this fashion disaster of a vigilante-- who _happened_ to pop up right outside _your_ school after _you_ went missing-- is not you.”

 

“...No?”

 

Tony smacks a hand to his forehead. “Peter,” he grits out. “I had no idea where you were. You could’ve been taken again, all because you ran off and got yourself plastered in the news. That is not okay.”

 

Peter looks down at his feet, biting his lip. “Who would’ve helped him? If I didn’t, who would’ve helped that boy? Something bad was gonna happen to him.”

 

“That’s not your responsibility.”

 

“Isn’t it though?” Peter challenges, looking up at him. His posture is still ashamed, but he looks imploringly at Tony as he voices his next thoughts. “I was there. If I didn’t do anything, it would’ve been my fault. Didn’t… didn’t you save me for the same reason? Because it was a good thing to do?”

 

Tony stares unwaveringly into those big brown eyes, trying to hold his ground, but crap if he hasn’t got anything to say to that. Finally he just sighs and rubs a hand down his face. If this is what parenthood is like, he's gonna need a stronger medication.

 

“So…” The billionaire peeks up at the sound of Peter’s voice, which is more bashful now. He seems to take Tony’s continued silence as a surrender (and heck, maybe it is). “...How was your day?”

 

...

 

For his second day of school, Peter is less anxious, now having an idea of what to expect. The only difference is that Tony is going to pick him up _straight_ after school. He emphasized that fact to Peter several times.

 

Peter feels bad for scaring him, but honestly, he refuses to regret what he did. No matter what the older man says, Peter is sure it’s what he would’ve done in his place; therefore, it was the right thing to do.

 

His fourth period class is chemistry and it’s the only one he gets to have with both Ned and MJ, both of whom are quick to hound him on the details of his disappearance the day before. 

 

Across the room, most of the class in engaged in a loud conversation. People are hanging on the words of a girl with long blonde hair, seated atop her desk like a queen on a pedestal, soaking up the attention. Peter recognizes her as one of the students who speaks in the morning announcement videos: Betty Brant. She’s recounting for everyone in dramatic detail how her brother was saved from certain death the day before by the appearance of a new street hero, which everyone wants to know more about. They're all read her mom's article, of course, but the way she exaggerates the story is probably more fun for them to believe.

 

So when MJ nudges him in the shoulder and asks, “Where the heck were you yesterday?”, all he has to do is tip his head meaningfully in Betty’s direction and they put the pieces together easily enough. Ned gasps excitedly, “No _way_!” and MJ only prevents him from talking further by shoving an elbow in his side.

 

Finally Mr. Cobbwell arrives and shushes everyone to begin class. Peter sinks down in his seat self-consciously as his friends just continue to stare at him. It's a relief when everyone gets paired off for a lab assignment and Peter’s put with a girl he’s noticed around school but had yet to speak to: Liz Allen. 

 

“You’re really good at this,” she tells him towards the end of class. “You ever thought about trying out for Academic Decathlon?”

 

That takes him by surprise. He shakes his head shyly.

 

She smiles, brushing her hair over her shoulder. Peter can smell her flowery-scented shampoo as strongly as if the bottle were open right in front of his nose, but he finds he doesn't mind. (It's a nice smell compared to many others in the school, that's for sure.) “You should think about it. We’ve been needing another person for awhile. I haven’t seen someone as good at chemistry as you since… well, since this kid named Harry who used to go here.”

 

Her tone implies that there’s more to the story than that, and Peter fiddles with his pencil, hoping it’s acceptable to ask his next question. “What happened to him?”

 

Liz leans closer, lowering her voice. “He was, like, super depressed. Actually ended up killing himself last year. There was a big school memorial for him and everything. Sad, right?”

 

The end-of-class bell rings and a flurry of activity prevents further conversation as students gather their things and begin stampeding out the door for lunch. Liz smiles at him again, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “Try out for decathlon!” she insists one more time before hurrying to catch up with her friends.

 

Peter is the last one out. He processes for another moment before moving to leave. 

 

…

 

It’s in the bathroom later that day that he’s confronted by Flash Thompson again.

 

“Aw, if it isn’t my good friend Pete!” the kid crows, slapping Peter on the rear as he’s washing his hands. Peter yelps, jumping away, eyeing the other boy wearily.

 

He still can’t get a clear reading of _good_ or _bad_ on this particular person.

 

“Hi, Flash,” he tries politely. “How are you today?”

 

For some reason the other boy finds that funny, because he laughs and doesn’t answer. (Peter is confused. So confused.) “Dude, guess what I heard from Betty today?” he asks.

 

Peter rocks back on the soles of his shoes awkwardly. “Uh… she was telling everyone about her brother… Ben or something, right? I don’t really--”

 

“No, no, not that, silly! I mean, that’s whatever, but I’m talking about something _serious_.” He reaches out and puts a hand around Peter’s shoulders like he’s revealing a great secret. “Betty said that Liz said that she _likes_ you.”

 

A pause. “I’m… glad? I like her too. She’s a nice person…” Peter trails off when Flash starts laughing again. For some reason that laughter makes him feels incredibly dumb. It's so different from Mr. Stark's laughter, which makes him feel like he's being included in something special. 

 

“No, doofus," Flash explains slowly, like Peter's hard of hearing. "Like, she’s _crushing_ on you.”

 

Oh. Tony explained that one to him after he heard it in a TV show they were watching. His cheeks burn. “Wha- why?” he asks, baffled.

 

“Apparently you woo her with your chemistry skills, if you get what I mean. And you know what? She’ll be at my pool party this Saturday,” he announces in a sing-song voice. “In case you needed any more incentive to come... Not just anyone can attract the attention of a senior girl, my man. You’d have be an idiot to turn her down. And you’re not an idiot, are you, Potts?”

 

Peter struggles to decide an acceptable answer to that. Meanwhile Flash just smirks, giving him one more harsh pat on the back and strolling out of the bathroom. The door swings shut and Peter still stands there, processing the interaction.

 

_Maybe Flash is good_ , he muses,  _and he'_ __s_ just trying to make friends with me in a different way? _

 

He thinks about the invitation he still has crumpled up in his backpack.

 

_It would be not-good of me to reject that... Right?_

...

 

The door to Norman’s office bursts open and he sighs, pulling himself away from the Daily Bugle News ap he’d been scrolling through on his phone.

 

“Nothing is working!” Connors growls, clawing his one hand through his hair. “I can’t seem to replicate the gene-splicing technique with a reptile sample on our test mice and it’s driving me insane! We need the boy back. There’s just no other way around it.”

 

Norman hides his phone screen by placing it face-down on the table. He appraises the doctor calmly. “Let me take a look at it,” he suggests. “I worked more closely on the Archetype’s DNA coding, after all. I’m sure I can figure something out.”

 

Within a few hours, he has an alternative serum synthesized. It’s enough to pacify the other man, who is in fact so eager to try it out right then and there that he volunteers himself as their test subject. Norman isn’t surprised: the amputee has coveted the lizard’s regenerative abilities for years. He watches as the man connects himself to an IV filled with toxic-looking green fluid and begins the injection greedily.  

 

_Oh, Curt_ , he thinks fondly.  _You are too easily manipulated, old friend_.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...I promise there’s a load of quality IronDad(™) content coming in the next chapter, I just didn’t have room for it here. I’m so tired, guys. Please accept this offering and I’ll try to get it up for Father’s Day, okay? Your comments give me life and i love you all.  
>  Later weirdos  
> -Bean


	7. Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are even more things wrong with him than he thought, apparently.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *warning* this chapter contains: Tony describing what sexual abuse is to Peter (very lightly, as one would to a child); a PTSD panic attack; and bullying taken too far...
> 
> BARELY SLIDING THIS IN FOR FATHER'S DAY!! I don’t know how or why all this angst got smushed into one chapter, but... sorry? I meant for the Irondad content to be more fluffy. that'll be next time, I guess.

“Do you have to read that in front of me?” 

 

The boy who’s made himself at home on the ceiling beam a few feet overhead peaks around the pages of  _ The Life Works of Howard Stark _ . 

 

“What would you rather me do?” he quips.

 

Tony sighs, setting down a wrench and crossing his arms fondly at the little twerp. 

 

“Don’t you have homework or something? High schools still do that, right?”

 

“I finished it during my free period. You know, when other kids are at gym.”

 

“Fair enough. Yet, in a tower full of rooms, you have to be reading in my lab because…?”

 

Peter stares, his expression unreadable. He lowers the book. “I… I can go, if you want…”

 

“You’re fine,” Tony says, maybe too quickly. He ‘ah-hem’s and looks away self-consciously. “You may as well come down here and help me, anyway.”

 

In an instant, a spider-boy flips down to land lightly at his side, vibrating eagerly. “Really? What are you working on?” 

 

The genius gestures to the suit of armor spread out in pieces on the table. “Fix-ups. These things are like instruments: they need tuning once in awhile. Considering what you did for Rhodey’s leg braces, you could probably figure this out easily enough. For now, though, all I ask is that you stay on-call for tools.”

 

“I can’t believe you  _ made _ this,” Peter says in awe. “I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”

 

“Necessity is the mother of invention, kid. I’ll tell you the story another day. Hand me a screwdriver?” 

 

Peter sets down his book on a stool and looks around the tool box for the requested item. After he’s handed it over, his gaze slides back to the book. “Howard Stark has a lot of fascinating ideas in there,” he muses. “Did you know there’s a whole chapter conceptualizing a type of super-strong organic rope? The chemical formulas he tried were never successful, but I think I see where he went wrong.”

 

_ Yeah, there’s a lot of unfinished ideas in there. I’m surprised there’s not a chapter on raising a emotionally functional kid— that’s a project Howard Stark went wrong on, too.  _

 

Not looking up, Tony huffs, “You  _ would _ go straight for the spider-inspired web formula.”

 

The kid smiles cheekily. “It could be really useful,” he defends. “Like… it could be put in a manually-triggered device and used to build temporary bridges in an emergency… or, if someone dangerous needed to be restrained, it could safely immobilize them.”

 

“...Please tell me you’re not thinking what I think you’re thinking.” The genius glances sideways. Peter is, in fact, much too thoughtful-looking to be safe. 

 

“I keep remembering how the man had a knife, Mr. Stark—“

 

“Yeah, see, that’s where I didn’t want you to go—“

 

“—and he was apparently trying to take the boy home with him? But, Bennett said he was his teacher. What would a teacher want with a little kid, Mr. Stark? What was he gonna do with him?” 

 

Tony leans against the edge of the table, considering the genuinely baffled look on Peter’s face. His mouthy forms a grim line. “Cloth, please,” he says after a moment.

 

“You know, don’t you?” Peter presses, offering the man an oil-stained rag. “You know but you don’t want to tell me.”

 

“Trust me, kid, it’s nothing you need to worry about. Some people are just… a little messed up in the head.” Even focusing on his hands as he works, he can feel the kid’s unsatisfied gaze still on him. 

 

He sighs, giving in. “There are people in this world who think they can do whatever they want with other people’s bodies; as in, they forcibly touch them in places they don’t want to be touched. It's called sexual abuse. It’s illegal and dirty and wrong in so many ways and that’s more than enough explanation. 

 

“As a much needed conversation change,” he goes on, “I, uh… I met with someone the other day named Nick Fury. He’s an old friend, and he’s actually the person who tipped me off about the Bubble Shock factory. Anyway, we talked about… uh, kid? ...Kid, are you okay?”

 

Tony has been facing the table with his eyes jammed shut through the majority of his uncomfortable explanation, and he’s unprepared for what he sees when he finally turns to gauge Peter’s response. 

 

Even though he was relaxed just a minute ago, Peter has gone inexplicably rigid and he’s gripping the edge of the table so hard his knuckles are white. His eyes are wide open but stare unseeingly at the floor. As Tony watches, he sees that the boy’s chest is beginning to heave with short, rapid breaths. 

 

“Peter?” Tony moves in front of him, waving a hand in front of his face. He doesn’t respond. His eyes are flicking back and forth wildly. “Peter, what’s wrong, buddy?”

 

Peter’s breathing picks up rapidly into hyperventilation. Suddenly the metal edges of the table creek beneath his hands— his strength is too much for the material and it crumples from his grasp— and he whines a terrified noise, falling to his knees. 

 

“Peter, talk to me, kid! Are you in pain? FRIDAY, what’s wrong with him?” Tony demands frantically, kneeling beside the fallen boy. He doesn’t have another chip in him somewhere, does he? 

 

“Peter is experiencing a trauma-induced flashback,” FRIDAY informs. “Staying calm and reminding him of where he is will help the episode pass.” 

 

_ A flashback? That doesn’t make any sense! _ Tony thinks wildly. 

 

Peter’s hands are fisted in his hair and he’s rocking slightly on his haunches, small whimpers catching in his throat. The sight makes Tony’s heart ache. 

 

He forces a deep breath and speaks firmly. “Peter. You’re okay. You’re in the lab with me, with Tony. It’s just us two and you’re safe. You’re safe. Come back to me, kiddo.” 

 

He repeats the words for a few heart-wrenching minutes before slowly Peter’s eyes refocus and his hands fall limp in his lap. His gasps slow to a more normal pace, and finally he looks up, seemingly back in the present. 

 

“T-Tony?” he whispers. “Oh, my gosh… oh, my gosh, I don’t— I-I don’t know what just—“

 

“Shh, it’s okay,” Tony croons, holding his arms out. A trembling armful of Peter folds himself into the offered embrace. They stay that way, listening to one another’s heartbeats calm. 

 

“I think…” Peter croaks after a minute, “I think I just had a memory. But it wasn’t… I mean, I don’t  _ remember _ it happening to me…”

 

Tony strokes the kid’s hair lightly, something his mother used to do to calm him down. “What kind of memory was it, buddy?”

 

“I was in a bedroom and someone was holding me down and... I was so scared…” is all Peter manages to get out before he buries his face in the man’s collar and shakes his head. “How is that possible, Tony? They created me. I don’t remember anything before they created me.”

 

And besides horrified, confused silence, Tony has nothing to offer. 

 

…

 

“Are you  _ sure _ you want to do this,” Tony asks for the billionth time. 

 

They’re parked on the curb away down from a nice suburban-looking house. Cars line the streets, filling every potential parking spot as a tell-tale sign of the house party taking place in the Thompson’s backyard. The bass of loud music is vibrating Peter’s bones even from this distance and he can hear the splashing and laughing from the backyard already threatening to give him a headache, but he steels his nerves and nods anyway. 

 

“Yes,” he confirms, looking at Tony. 

 

The last couple days of his first week of school passed uneventfully… aside from his dramatic breakdown in the lab, that is. When he regained control of himself, Peter was humiliated and so, so confused. 

 

There are even more things wrong with him than he thought, apparently. 

 

He knows it freaked Tony out. The man has been more careful with him all of a sudden, like he doesn’t know what he can say or do that might set off another mystery meltdown. If he’s honest, Peter’s scared too. The way his mind had suddenly torn in two, half in the present and half in some dark past he’s sure isn’t his (and yet, he experienced it in first-person perspective as if it was), is probably the worst sensation he’s had thus far. 

 

What if… what’s if there’s a glitch in the way  _ they _ made him? How were they supposed to fix it? 

 

(And who could ever want to keep a kid with problems like this?)

 

That’s why he’s determined to be okay. He’s fine. He’s fine. Just a normal kid invited to a normal pool party. 

 

“And Ned and MJ are gonna be here too?” Tony double-checks, pulling Peter out of his thoughts. 

 

He shoves down a mouthful of guilt and tries to sound confident. “Yeah, yeah they are. They’re already inside.” 

 

(He’ll tell Tony the truth afterwards… then he’ll be so impressed at how independent Peter’s becoming, and he won’t worry about him being so helpless all the time. Right? Right.)

 

Tony accepts the lie with a hum of understanding. “Okay, well, you better get in there, then. Just remember, Peter:  _ no swimming _ . Not with your, you know…” he gestures to his midsection. 

 

“Right,” Peter confirms. “Okay. I’ll call you when it’s over. Later, Da— ah— Mr. Stark!” 

 

He hurries out of the car before he can embarrass himself any more.

 

...

 

The front door is open with a sign that says the party’s out back, so Peter assumes it’s acceptable to enter. Inside, people are coming and going from the backyard to the kitchen, carrying drink cups and plates piled with potato chips. Nobody says anything to him as he makes his way out the back door and stands awkwardly by the wall of the house, taking everything in. 

 

Speakers blast pop music over the scene: a grand patio crowded with tables and chairs, a grassy yard where some guests are sprawled out on blankets, and as promised, a large swimming pool that assaults Peter’s nose with the scent of chlorine. There’s so much movement and sound that the boy sways a little, overwhelmed.

 

“Pete, my man!” Flash crows from the hot tub. He points a finger at Peter and many heads turn to see who he’s greeting. Peter recognizes some of them as people he’s seen in the halls of Midtown High. “I’m so glad you could make it! Come on in, dude!” 

 

Peter timidly picks his way over to the boy and shuffles his feet awkwardly at the edge of the tub before dropping into a cross-legged position. He realizes with sudden discomfort that he’s the only one at the party wearing jeans and a t-shirt; everyone else is clad in bathing suits and shorts. 

 

“Dude,” Flash laughs, looking at Peter’s clothes condescendingly. “What are you wearing? Aren’t you gonna swim?” 

 

Jason surfaces from the bubbles beside Flash and drapes his muscular arms up out on the sides of the tub. “Yeah, man, the water’s great. You’re missing out,” he agrees. 

 

Peter taps the tips of his shoes on the concrete awkwardly. “I, uh… I’m not really good at swimming,” he admits. Not a lie. He’s never been swimming in his life. “But I’m glad you guys invited me! This is a great party. I don’t really know a lot of people, though.”

 

The two exchange a look that Peter can’t decipher. “Know what? I’ll show you around,” Flash offers. He lifts himself out of the water, spraying Peter with droplets. Peter follows suit, standing and following the other boy back to the patio. He goes inside to grab something and comes back with a plate of chips.

 

“Here, help yourself,” he says, shoving it into Peter’s hands while simultaneously clapping him on the back. As Peter stutters thanks and takes the offering, Flash guides him to a table full of upperclassmen. “Hey guys, meet my friend Peter Potts!” he says, letting go of Peter’s shoulder. 

 

Peter waves shyly, but the group of teenagers doesn’t seem very impressed. Until Flash turns him around to guide him away, that is-- then the group he was just introduced to bursts into laughter for some reason. As they go from table to table, others pick up on something because they share the same reaction. Now everyone seems to be aware of Peter, pointing him out to their friends and whispering. 

 

He’s only more mystified when one girl asks if he’d “like to borrow a tampon”, and it sparks more giggles and guffaws all around.

 

“Are you  _ sure _ you don’t want to swim, Peter?” a girl he doesn’t recognize asks him sweetly as they stand near the edge of the pool. 

 

She seems nice, and seeing her reminds Peter that Liz is supposed to be here. He hasn’t seen her anywhere, though.

 

It’s because he’s focused on putting together a polite rejection for this girl, and because the music is so loud and disorienting, and because he’s just generally on-edge for some reason, that he doesn’t notice the extra flare of warning tingle up his spine until it’s too late.   

 

There are a pair of hands on his back shoving him; then he’s falling, a terrifying weightless sensation; and then with a splash, he’s plunged into cold, dark silence.

 

He can’t breathe.

 

_ He can’t breathe. _

 

He breaks the surface in a panic, flailing his arms and blinking stinging water out of his eyes. As he bobs desperately, he can make out a crowd of faces jeering at him from the pool’s edge, with Jason and Flash at the forefront, doubled over in laughter. 

 

“Holy crap, Potts,” Flash wheezes. “That was too easy.”

 

“Told you the water’s nice!” Jason calls. 

 

Peter manages to paddle himself to the far wall of the pool, grasping at the slick stones for dear life. His instinct is to scale it out of there as fast as possible, but he knows that would expose too much so instead he allows his finger to keep him locked in place as he gasps and coughs the water from his lungs. 

 

Something catches his eye-- a neon yellow sticky note, now soggy but still readable, floats in the little waves around him, obviously having come off when he fell in. It reads, “ _ I can’t swim cuz I’m on my period! _ ”

 

Peter’s lip trembles.

 

There’s so much hurt welling up in his chest that it startles him-- he’s uninjured, there’s nothing there to cause pain-- but it’s pain nonetheless and he doesn’t know how to stop it. He feels stinging in his eyes and aches for the one person who could make this right… 

 

For all the intelligence in his mind, he has absolutely no idea what to do.

 

At that moment, however, someone (something?) else makes the next move for him.

 

…

 

Tony’s not a helicopter parent. He’s not.

 

He just has a lot of emails to reply to, thank you very much, and that’s why he’s still sitting in his car 45 minutes later, having not moved the car since Peter got out. 

 

(Ever since Peter called him ‘Dad’. Again.)

 

He figures he may as well wait til Peter’s done with his little playdate, at this point. So he keeps scrolling through his phone, unaffected by all the noise and laughter coming from this decidedly raucous pool party. 

 

When bikini and speedo-clad teens start to run screaming from the backyard, however; that, he notices. And it makes major alarm bells go off in his head. Particularly because Peter isn't among them.

 

Before he knows it he’s running for the scene of  _ whatever _ is going down, a suit already on its way. He doesn’t know what he’s expecting-- an active shooter, maybe? A wild animal in the pool? A guest showing up in out-of-style clothes? (He has no idea what millennial teens are scared of, anymore.)

 

In a way, all of those guesses was right. 

 

A giant lizard-man in a shredded white lab coat is standing in a pile of broken boards of wood, probably having just crashed through the fence and causing the teenage scare.

  
“Bring me the  _ Archetype _ !” he screams.


	8. Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Remember that old movie, ‘Suburban Commando’?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IM SO SORRY FOR THE WAIT ITS BEEN THE LONGEST WEEK OF MY LIFE  
> I started a second job and it’s exhausting and on my first day off, a group of friends I haven’t seen in years showed up at my apartment like “we decided to road trip to see you!” And I was like “yayyy haha whentheheckamigonnawritefanfictionthough” so. 
> 
> I’m hoping to adjust and get back to posting every couple days. Enjoy the Irondad~

Curtis Connors’ life is turning out much differently than he had planned.

 

To think, he’d once thought that he'd reached fulfillment when he achieved his dream of becoming an army surgeon. Then he’d lost his arm in an explosion and that career path crumbled. Much introspection and reflection later he realized he was meant to do so much more; all the wounded soldiers he had helped operate on, the disabled veterans, and now himself with his missing limb— none need have suffered so. The idea of saving humanity from its own frailties drove him back to his biological research with a zealously that overrode all else. Even when his wife left him taking full custody of their son with her, he just used the hurt as an excuse to isolate himself in his lab even more.

 

About a year ago his old college friend offered him a top position in his company’s research department and introduced him to the fascinating possibilities of stolen Hydra research, and his plans evolved before his eyes with thrilling efficiency.

 

Yet he never imagined those good-intending ambitions would take him to a moment like this… betrayed by his partner, transformed into a monster…

 

If he were in his right mind, he would have thought through a reasonable solution. As it is, reptiles don’t have the cognitive abilities that humans do. His thinking is reduced to a one-track obsession. He holds madly to one last coherent thought, a possible way to reverse the situation, the thing he wanted to do all along:

 

_Get the boy back._

 

“ _Where is he_?” he screeches, his voice unrecognizable and shredded from the brutal transformation. “I know he’s here! I can smell him…”

 

He flexes his claws on broken bits of wooden fence and steps forward. Slit-pupiled eyes sweep the vicinity.

 

While his initial entrance had sent the majority of the human occupants fleeing, he doesn’t move to pursue them because the scent of his prey is among those that remain. He sees a man by the far entrance to the yard, a few teens taking cover in the house, and a lone boy clinging to the edge of the swimming pool. The latter is staring back at him with open terror in his eyes.

 

It’s not hard to pick out the one he’s after.

 

The boy scrabbles uselessly at wet tiles as the Lizard draws nearer. He tries letting go to swim but flounders and lunges back to the wall in panic. His pupils are blown in fear and his heart races in his chest. Neither fight nor flight are an option.

 

He is trapped and he knows it.

 

“You thought you could hide from me among normal children, wearing normal clothes?” Connors hisses, tongue flicking out between in a sharp-toothed grin. “You can’t hide from me. I _made_ you. And I’m here to collect my property.”

 

A taloned fist wraps vice-like around the boy’s upper arm, yanking him out of the water and throwing him in a sputtering heap to the cement. He yelps, pathetic and trembling like a mouse before a snake. Connors’ long, scaly tail moves to encircle his torso. (What a pleasure to have gone from having one less limb, to one extra, he thinks in a flash of manic delight.)

 

Before the reptile can make off with his prize, however, there is the whine of an energy source charging up and then a blast of light slams into him from the side.

 

…

 

There's a thunderous crash as the Lizard man is shot, hissing and writhing, into a set of tables, sending fold-up chairs and plastic umbrellas flying.

 

Peter looks up through sodden bangs, bewilderment breaking through his panic.

 

“Kid, you alright?” a familiar (if metallic) voice asks from the direction of the blast. He turns to see Iron Man in all his glory, hand is still raised and palm glowing from the recent shot.

 

“F-f-fine,” Peter replies, trying and failing to keep a lid on the squeak of fear in his voice.

 

They both turn as the blasted Lizard gives an infuriated howl of rage. He’s regained his feet and is facing them with a murderous craze.

 

Peter’s primal instincts scream at him to _get up, fight back, do something,_ but there’s so much happening all at once and it’s too much. His emotions are scrambled from the last five minutes and this new development isn’t exactly helping to clear the disorientation.  

 

Luckily Tony seems to have more experience rolling with high-stress situations, because he whistles in appraisal of their foe. “Wow-ee, and what do you call yourself? Godzilla? Dr. Scales? I’m pretty sure Hulk has a copyright on the scientist turning into a green rage monster thing, so you better prepare yourself for a lawsuit, buddy.”

 

The creature scowls, fist clenching. “I am Dr. Curtis Connors and I don’t have time for your _games_ , Tony Stark!” he hisses. “I have work to do. I’m taking my creation back and nobody will stand in my way, not even _you_!”

 

He lunges forward on the last word. Tony moves almost at the exact same time, his thrusters roaring to life and shooting him across the yard to intercept the attack. It’s the clash of claws on metal when they collide that finally spurs Peter into jumping to his feet.

 

“Alright, FRIDAY,” he hears Tony grunt as he shoves the creature away from him, “got anything useful for me on how to take down a giant reptile?”

 

Whatever response the AI gives him inside his helmet is unheard by Peter, but his own mind is racing now with potential moves.

 

What does he have to contribute? He’s strong, but the Lizard obviously has as much enhanced strength as he does, plus claws and teeth…That only leaves him his intelligence as the upper hand.

 

Except. What the heck is he supposed to do? Challenge him to a riddle? If he had developed the spider-web formula he read about, that would be perfect for this situation...

 

“Okay, somebody is really salty about not getting invited to the pool party,” Iron Man remarks as the Lizard starts picking up objects and hurling them at them like party-themed missiles. “What, the other sewer animals didn’t want you crashing with them? Can’t say I blame them.”

 

Peter feels a flash of awe at the man’s ability to quip during a fight, but then his senses alert him of danger and he dodges to avoid a flying cooler. The heavy item crashes through a large glass window and the cacophonous shattering is mixed with screams from inside the house. Looking up, he spots the pale face of Flash Thompson cowering behind furniture in the kitchen.

 

“What the freak is _that_ ?” the boy shrieks half disgusted and half hysterical, all suave composure long gone. “What is that _thing_?”

 

Connors eyes turn in his direction and his eyes narrow dangerously. Flash’s jaw goes slack in terror.

 

“No, no, no, be a nice liza-” Tony tries to distract, but in a surge of anger, the Lizard grabs his metal arm and tosses him to the side like a toy doll. Peter yelps, reaching out a hand as his caretaker goes careening past the hot tub and obliterates a large poolside planter, heavy broken bits of cinder block avalanching over him.

 

The Lizard is advancing on Flash now, uninhibited.

 

“Run!” Peter urges him, but the bully-turned-victim is frozen and all he does is stare as the creature gets nearer. Tony is still buried.

 

In a flash, claws rip away the couch between him and the teenager and he goes for the kill.

 

Before he even realizes he’s started moving, Peter is slamming into the other boy and both of them crash to the ground. Maybe it’s because his clothes are still soggy and it’s slowing him down, but he’s not quite fast enough to get them both out of the way in time; the edge of one long talon nicks across Peter’s shoulder as they fall. He gasps, instantly clamping the hand of his good arm over the wound.

 

Flash looks at him with wide eyes, gaping wordlessly like a fish out of water.

 

“Go,” Peter grits out. The Lizard is sprawled on the kitchen floor from his misfire but he’s recovering fast. “Go, go!”

 

Flash doesn’t need any more convincing. He backpedals on his knees before jerking up and sprinting out of there. The giant reptile doesn’t pay him any mind, because whatever grudge he had with him dissipates at the sight of Peter sprawled before him.

 

“Archetype,” he hisses.

 

The enormous tongue slithers out and licks at his bloody claw with a grotesque pleasure. Peter shivers, but springs to his feet all the same and vaults over the creature right as it lunges, giving him a hard kick on the back of the head on his way down. Connors screams.

Tony bursts out of the pile of rubble at the same moment Peter skids back outside.

 

The faceplate lifts and he stares at Peter’s shoulder, which is still gripped tightly and starting to redden his wet t-shirt with blood. “What happened?” he demands.

 

Peter ignores the question. “Mr. Stark, I know what we need to do! Remember that old movie, _Suburban Commando_?”

 

His mentor deadpans. “I gave you access to all the gold of cinematic history, and that’s the film you choose to reference right now?”

 

“Lizards have cold blood, Mr. Stark,” Peter goes on, waiting for him to get it. The pool water chilling him and making him feel weighed down had given him the idea. “He might be weakened if he’s—!”

 

Understanding dawns just as the Lizard returns. He goes straight for Peter, evidently done with beating around the bush, but Iron Man’s face plate slams down and he intervenes, shoving the boy behind him and lifting a palm.

 

“FRIDAY, Elsa Protocol,” he commands. The mechanical gears in his gauntlet shift and right when their foe is inches from contact, a blast of white mist erupts, stopping him as effectively as a brick wall. Compressed liquid nitrogen engulfs the creature in a cloud of frost and the burning cold stings Peter’s skin even from a distance.

 

As for Connors, he shrinks back and screams like a dying zombie.

 

Tony keeps up the stream until his writhing quickly slows to twitches and only when finally he’s immobilized does he put his hand back down. The ice-covered Lizard before them begins to morph and change before their eyes, groaning weakly, and suddenly there’s a much smaller, one-armed man in a torn lab coat shivering violently at their feet. Tony gives a few more orders to FRIDAY and within seconds he’s snapping a restraint on the man’s wrist to constrain him to a metal pipe by the house. Police sirens are audible in the distance and quickly getting closer.

 

It’s not until officers are shoving the near-hypothermic scientist onto the back of a police car that Peter breathes a sigh of relief, his adrenaline high crashing and leaving him light-headed. He allows Tony to wrap a grounding arm (now armor-free) around his shoulders and spares a glance at the car driving away.

 

“He was frozen today!” Peter intones seriously, then giggles.

 

Tony gives him a look like he’s never been more blown away by anyone in his life.

 

…

 

The arrest of Curtis Connors is a nice bow on the top of Oscorp’s downfall.

 

True to his super-spy capabilities, Fury had managed to unearth irrefutable evidence of corruption in the Bubble Shock company, linking it to a secret project in their experimental research department. There’s a long list of texts about it on Tony’s phone when they get back to their own car, including a link to a breaking news story, but he doesn’t have time to read all about it at the moment. They’ve already spent longer than he’d like giving witness statements and he’s impatient to get out of there.

 

He’s got a kid to get home.

 

He casts a sideways glance at the passenger side. Poor kiddo is shaking like a leaf in his soaked jeans and t-shirt and although Tony is paranoid enough to have an Iron Man suit packed in the trunk, he doesn’t have any spare clothes to offer. The best he can do for now is shrug off his own jacket and wrap it around the boy’s shoulders like a blanket.

 

FRIDAY informs him that the cut on his shoulder is a flesh wound, nothing life-threatening, but it doesn’t stop him from noticing how Peter flinches and clenches his jaw when the appendage gets jostled by bumps on the road.

 

Tony decides they both need a breather and doesn’t say anything for the duration of the ride. When they’ve finally parked and he’s opening the passenger door to help Peter out, he decides it’s time to break the silence.

 

“So… fun party?”

 

Peter glances up at him, as if assessing how many unasked questions are packed behind that one, then lowers his eyes to the pavement. “Sure.”

 

He guides the boy to the elevator with a hand on his good shoulder. “Here, come with me to the workshop. We gotta check out that battle wound. And just so you know, it’s not a normal thing for giant, genetically-altered villains to crash social events. I hope you’re not dissuaded from future endeavors.”

 

“I don’t think I’ll be going to any more parties anytime soon,” Peter mutters. Tony is surprised by the quiet edge of self-loathing in his voice, but when he glances over to assess, the boy’s eyes are still downcast, unreadable.

 

Crap.

 

Tony digests that for a moment before prompting, “I noticed you decided to go swimming in your clothes.”

 

Peter’s head snaps up, his eyes big. “I d-didn’t mean to! I mean… I wasn’t trying to disobey you! R-really. I just… I fell in,” he finishes lamely.

 

They hault as Tony enters the door code to the lab. It beeps in affirmation and slides open to admit them. Peter waits for Tony to move first but the man just looks at him searchingly.

 

“Fell in,” he repeats dubiously. “ _You_.”

 

The boy lifts one shoulder in a shrug, still not meeting Tony’s eyes.

 

A bad feeling sits heavy in the genius’ gut but he decides not to push just yet. He beckons forward and they move again.

 

He retrieves a towel and change of clothes for the boy and allows him some privacy while he goes to find a bottle of antiseptic and some gauze. Peter is silent, waiting patiently on the lab table with his knees to his chest when he returns.

 

“This will sting a bit,” the man warns after washing the dried blood away with a wet rag and lifting the canister of Neosporin. Peter nods and merely bites his lip when the solution is applied, though it has to sting like mad. This is his first real injury, after all.

 

Tying the last of the gauze around his shoulder, Tony gives the boy a light hair-ruffle and hands him a dry shirt. “All done, champ.”

 

Silence. Neither makes a move. Tony waits.

 

A drop of water falls on Peter’s knee and the boy startles, lifting his head. Slowly, he raises a hand to his face and feels the tear track. He stares at his wet fingers in bewilderment.

 

“What’s happening?” he whispers hoarsely.

 

Tony feels his heart crack a little. “You’re crying, buddy.”

 

“...Why?”

 

“It means you’re sad. Do you… do you wanna talk about why you’re sad?”

 

Peter’s gaze slowly lifts from the moisture on his hand to meet Tony’s eyes. Those tawny brown eyes fill with more water.

 

“I… I don’t—“ his voice breaks and he chokes on a small sob.

 

Somehow it’s so natural, the way Tony’s hands automatically take Peter’s shoulders gently and draw him in close, pressing the curly-haired head under his chin.

 

(Less than a month ago, he felt predominantly self-conscious when he struggled to reciprocate a hug from this kid; now he wonders why it was so hard.)

 

“Shh, it’s okay,” he comforts easily. “It’s been a long day.”

 

Peter shakes in his hold, but his good arm comes up to cling to the front of Tony’s shirt. A few more tears spill.

 

“Am I m-m-making too many s-social mist-takes?” he keens into Tony’s chest.

 

Tony frowns. “No, Peter. You’re just learning. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

 

“But I don’t even k-know what I did wrong!” Peter insists, tugging away. He yanks up his shirt to expose the smooth expanse of his stomach. “They don’t even know about this, and they still don’t like me! W-what’s _wrong_ with me?”

 

“We’re talking about the kids at the party, I assume.”

 

Peter nods, sniffling.

 

Tony sighs, shoving down the anger bubbling inside him. He’s had his own experiences with cruel huh schoolers, just a couple of the many skeletons in his closet. “There’s nothing wrong with you, Peter. Those kids have _no idea_ what you’re dealing with. Listen to me.” He waits for Peter to meet his eyes. “You are a good kid. An exceptionally good kid. And anyone who thinks otherwise can meet me out back for a ‘talk’. Got it?”

 

The boy cracks a smile. “Got it.” He wipes his eyes and takes a deep breath, looking tired all of a sudden.

 

Tony checks his watch. “It’s not too early to head to bed, if that’s what you wanna do,” he suggests.

 

Peter shakes his head, sitting up straighter. “No, I’m okay. Can we… can we do something together tonight? Like watch a movie or something?” he asks timidly.

 

The billionaire smiles, shoving his hands in his pockets and seating himself beside Peter on the table. “Not a bad idea. You clearly need my help picking good movies to watch.” The boy snorts indignantly.

 

“Or….” His gaze falls to a book sitting on a stool nearby. Peter follows his gaze then looks up quizzically. “Or, if you’re up to it, we could work on a little spinneret project. What do you say?”

 

…

  


It takes a few hours of mixing chemicals and testing out holographic simulations (and laughing at Dum-E’s attempt to help transfer beakers, which resulted in a broken glass and the robot being stuck in a goopy prototype web for 45 minutes), but at around 7:30pm they’re onto something stable enough to compact. There are a few designs for web-shooters drafted out on the touch screen when Tony calls it a night.

 

(Not that’s he’s not used to working till the wee hours, but his kid needs to be fed and put to bed at a reasonable hour.)

 

Peter looks disappointed when he tells him as much, and his baby-cheeked pout makes Tony snicker and pat his arm sympathetically. Despite having started this project mainly to humor the boy, even he has to admit the design has a lot of cool potential.

 

“We should do something fun,” the man proclaims.

 

Peter twirls the holographic design of their newly-discovered chemical compound in midair. “This was pretty fun.”

 

How did he end up with a kid as nerdy as him? “You would think so. How’s the shoulder?”

 

He pulls back his collar to check the bandage, flexing his arm experimentally. “It doesn’t hurt anymore.”

 

“If only my back had such resilience…” Tony mutters. Then louder, “That’s good, bud. Say, has anyone introduced you to dessert yet?”

 

“I had Oreos the other day... if that counts.”

 

The billionaire puts a hand over his heart, giving him a mortified expression. “Oh, my gosh. Nope. Not even close. I know exactly where we’re going tonight.”

 

After an actual dinner of real food (reheated pizza is real food, right?), Tony takes them to a quaint home-made style bakery that he and Pepper visit on occasion for dates. The neon red sign over the front window identifies it as “The Chocolate”. Glass enclosures display a variety of lusciously-frosted cakes, perfectly cut brownies and picture-perfect cookies, among other delicacies. Peter’s eyes are wide like… well, like a kid in a candy store.

 

A short wait in line and an order of one of almost everything, and soon they’re seated at a table out front, enjoying the cool night air. The platter of pastries between them is warm and sweet-smelling enough to make both their mouths water. Tony slides the plate forward gently and takes out his phone.

 

“Pick one, kiddo. I wanna get a picture of your face when your whole life is changed.”

 

Peter looks his options over then carefully dissects a cut from a section of red velvet cake. He looks at Tony with his eyebrows raised as the forkful enters his mouth.

 

The Stark phone makes a small shutter sound, and the resulting photo is as satisfyingly hilarious as anticipated.

 

Tony pulls a cinnamon roll towards himself and watches with growing delight as his kid devours the rest of the cake and buzzes in his seat with the beginnings of a sugar kick. This is probably where he should be regretting giving this much sugar to an already high-energy superkid. Instead, all he feels is content.

 

“Try this one next,” he says. “They have the best mint brownies here. Pepper and I get them every time.”

 

Peter brings the treat to his mouth, but when it’s a few inches away he flinches and drops it, startled. He stares at it on the table like it personally offended him.

 

“What? What’s wrong?”

 

The boy glances at Tony with a precious look of betrayal, sniffs the brownie again, then shoves it away decidedly. “It smells awful,” he proclaims.

 

Tony picks up the treat and smells it himself, then takes a bite. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, kid. It tastes as delicious as always,” he says around a full mouth.

 

“The green frosting on it smells awful,” Peter clarifies, going back for a chocolate chip cookie instead.

 

The genius furrows his brow. Just the green frosting? Not the rest of the brownie? Why in the world...

 

Then it hits him. He laughs, struggling not to choke on chocolate crumbs. Peter looks up, affronted. “What?” he asks.

 

“Peppermint,” Tony says simply, still snickering. “Spiders supposedly hate peppermint oil. Looks like that old wives tale is true, for spider-boys at least.”

 

Peter tilts his head. He sets the cookie down, suddenly a bit withdrawn. “Is that… is that good or bad?” he asks hesitantly. When Tony’s smile falters, he hurries to add, “I mean, is it good or bad that I’m… like a spider? Obviously you like the peppermint and I can try to eat it if you want—“

 

“Hey,” Tony interrupts. “Don’t worry about it, okay? Doesn’t matter what you do and don’t like. You’re you and that’s a good thing. I couldn’t have asked for a better kid to look after.”

 

Peter’s eyes shine a little brighter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Awww they’re so happy like they think everything’s gonna be alright :) haha
> 
> PS happy early birthday to Buckets-of-Stars!!! Love you, weirdo <3


	9. Nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Hey, sunshine!” Tony greets over his line, fingers looping absentmindedly in the curly rubber cord. “Thought you’d be glad to have a visitor. Don’t lizards get lonely?”
> 
> Connors rolls his eyes. “You always were insufferable, you know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy July! so this wouldve been up sooner but it just kept getting LoNger and loNGER.........
> 
> *Warning: near the beginning there are suicidal thoughts/mention of a suicide (my gosh i did not expect these kinds of warnings from this innocent little story of mine, im so sorry)

Peter is fascinated by dreaming. He’s had a good while to get used to the concept of dreams by now and as far as he can tell they don’t serve a vital purpose like his heartbeat or his breathing. They’re usually they’re simple rearranging of the day’s events; just bi-products of the subconscious mind internalizing reality.

 

He’s dreamed of waking up in the factory, of meeting Mr. Stark; he’s dreamed of helping more people like Bennett; of going to school and learning things in classrooms alongside other kids. He’s even had dreams where characters from Star Wars interact with him, and he’s particularly excited to recount those ones to Mr. Stark over breakfast because the man always smiles at him fondly when he gets into a vivid retelling.

 

It’s interesting to him how the dream seems to start fading the moment he wakes up and the details that seemed important get distorted like wisps of smoke dispersing into thin air. Overall he doesn’t mind the experience. Dreams are like food and hugs and science puns: they’re a simple thing that make him happy to be alive.

 

Right now, however, in the wee hours of Monday morning, Peter is dreaming and it’s a completely unfamiliar experience.

 

For the most part, dreams have been pleasant so far, but all he feels now is anxiety; like, danger-sense-blaring-and-hair-standing-on-edge anxiety. Anxiety like some tentacled creature has its suckers plastered around his chest, squeezing tighter and tighter, sending panic through his veins. That’s what he feels.

 

What he sees, flashing behind his eyelids, are glimpses of places and people that aren’t like the foggy reconstructions of his own imagination. They’re familiar and yet unfamiliar at the same time, faces with names that are at the tip of his tongue that feel like memories long forgotten yet just beneath the surface.

 

One face in particular comes with a hurricane all its own.

 

“-- _don’t know why I keep you around. You’re so useless, child,_ ” someone whispers, and with a pang in his chest, Peter feels himself believe it. _He_ is _useless, he is helpless and worthless and inferior in every way..._

 

There follows a visceral need to change himself, to prove to this person he can serve a purpose, so he tries and tries and _tries_ but all his efforts are like trying to get from Point A to Point B by running in place: it’s pointless and exhausting. He feels despair building inside him like so much trash overflowing a waste basket and it’s disgusting, _he’s_ disgusting, the world would be better off without him.

 

It takes so little to extinguish himself. Just a few pills choked back dry.

 

There’s an unexpected rush of regret and pain and terror when he starts to feel his stomach tearing itself apart— his biology’s stupid, vain attempt to fight it— but he wasn’t meant to exist and the universe knows it so nobody finds him till it’s too late. He takes his last halting breaths on the cold tile floor of a dark bathroom stall and thinks vaguely that at least his body is the last mess of his that anyone will have to clean up because _this is it—_

 

Even as his eyes close in death, Peter gasps awake like a drowned man surfacing for air.

 

Unable to move, he lays where he is, twisted in his sheets, mind racing. His heart is hammering wildly inside him like a caged bird, like it’s trying to physically rid him of the life-like sensation of cardiac arrest he was feeling only moments ago. Distantly he registers tears on his face but he has the oddest feeling that they’re not his own.

 

There’s a rapping on the door that startles him into sitting up suddenly. Tony’s voice filters through, cheerful and unconcerned, “Peter, you up yet? Don’t wanna be late for school, buddy!”

 

The boy can’t make his voice work properly, can’t make his mind form a coherent response. Within seconds, the door is swinging open, hesitant at first, then more confidently when his mentor sees that he’s awake. He flicks the light switch on and Peter flinches, hunching over and bringing both hands as fists to scrub at his eyes.

 

“Kiddo, I got breakfast on the table,” Tony sing-songs, walking over. “I think you’re gonna like-- uh, Peter? Pete, you good?”

 

He lowers his hands, but the evidence of red, watery eyes is still there. He doesn’t try to hide it, just looks blankly up at the man, waiting for things to make sense. Half of his mind is still processing everything he just experienced.

 

Tony’s demeanor does a 180 in an instant. He sits on the bed, landing a gentle hand on Peter’s shoulder, face and voice sobering in concern. “Hey. What’s up?”

 

Peter swallows thickly, his erratic breathing evening out. He works his jaw a bit before answering. “I, uh…” his voice cracks from sleep, and he coughs. “...I had some weird dreams.”

 

“Weird how?” Tony says, tilting his head to keep eye contact. “Not like the other day in the lab...?”

 

“K-kind-of?” He shudders. “I mean it wasn’t the same, er, _thing_ that I saw, but it… it was like before, like it was a memory b-but not. This time it was a lot of different things...” He can’t bring himself to put into words that particular experience at the end.

 

The billionaire scrubs a hand down his face with the hand that’s not grounding Peter, looking deep in thought. After a minute of silence in which both of them collect themselves, he exhales and takes both of Peter’s hands— which the boy had been wringing together subconsciously— in his, stilling their movement.

 

“I don’t know why this is happening to you, kiddo, but I promise I’ll figure it out,” he says firmly. After a sec he adds, “Do you want to stay home from school today?”

 

Peter thinks about it. A whole day with Tony would be nice, but he also wants to move on and forget this happened, so... “No, it’s okay,” he decides, swinging his feet off the bed. He tries a reassuring smile. “Did you say you made something special for breakfast?”

 

Tony smiles back, but his eyes are still searching as he stands. “Did I make it? No. Did I order it from the best place in town? Yes. Get your clothes on and meet me out there before it gets cold, okay?”

 

Not ten minutes later the boy is dressed confidently in a new outfit (Tony had him pick out a few new ensembles from an online clothing store, seeing as the few pairs of shirts and jeans they got from MJ’s thrift shop only went so far), his face scrubbed clean and his hair combed back. Vivid horror dreams aside, he’s ready to start this week of school off better than the last.

 

He’s halfway to the kitchen when he hears the Morning News coming from Tony’s kitchen TV set.

 

“--former science teacher at Midtown Elementary School known as Stephen ‘Skip’ Westcott was sentenced to 25 years in prison yesterday after the State of New York found him guilty of attempted sexual assault towards a minor,” a reporter states.

 

Peter halts in his tracks. Tony’s back is to Peter and he doesn’t notice him in the doorway to the kitchen, so focused as he is on the TV.

 

“Westcott was arrested one week ago after attempting to kidnap one of his pupils on his way home from school, one 10-year-old Bennett Brant. He pled guilty to the crime, and additionally confessed to three other unreported cases of sexual assault, the earliest of which was almost 10 years ago when he was hired out of high school as a babysitter for the late Harry Osborn, then 6 years old...”

 

Peter takes a step, and the floorboard beneath him creaks.

 

Tony smashes mute and spins around. “Peter!”

 

The flustered look is so wrong on him, Peter thinks, but it’s the wary way he assesses Peter that the boy can’t stand. Like the latter is a china doll, liable to shatter at the slightest misstep.

 

So pointedly not looking at the TV, Peter walks over to the big pink box on the table and flips the lid. Inside is an array of round pastries of varying size, shape and color. “Which one’s your favorite?” he asks.

 

Tony releases a breath, gratefully taking the bait. “I would go for a classic glazed on your first try, that’s this one right here,” he says, joining Peter and indicating one of the donuts. “Personally, I like the pink-frosted with sprinkles, but I’m sure you got room for both in the bottomless pit you call a stomach.”

 

Peter sticks his tongue out before taking a treat and _yes,_ it is good. “This is breakfast food?” he asks around a bite. “It tastes more like dessert.”

 

“Beats me how society managed that, kid. Something to Google later.” Tony checks his watch. “Okay, we should head out in a few, but I’m gonna grab something from the lab real quick.”

 

As he moves to leave, Peter turns, donut still in hand. “Can I get it for you?” he offers.

 

He must look eager enough, or Tony’s just happy to agree with him after the brief awkwardness. “Uh, sure, if you want to-- it’s just my pair of Stark glasses. Should be on the table by the suit.”

 

“Got it,” Peter affirms, heading out. He doesn’t look back but he can hear Tony’s body sag against the counter and the quiet thump as he hits his own head on the counter in embarrassment.

 

The glasses aren’t that hard to find, though the lab is a bit of a jumble from all the time they spent in there the previous day perfecting the web-shooter design. The newly-3D-printed contraptions themselves are sitting on the counter and Peter walks over to admire them. They’re small and circular, made to fit a user’s wrists for quick access and portability.

 

It’s just a prototype design, but with the little canisters of web fluid compacted inside, it just begs to be tested...

 

Peter glances at the lab door. Looks back to the web shooters.

 

Tony doesn't notice the slight bulge under the kid’s sleeves when he gets back to the kitchen, nor does he notice in the car or after he’s pulling away after dropping him off for school.

 

…

 

Ned is barely in the school doors when he gets a text from MJ saying she’s home sick and to not let Peter die today. He scoffs. This guy in the chair can handle a _day_ on his own.

 

Now if he can just _find_ Peter...

 

It’s even more abuz than usual in the halls of Midtown High that morning, what with the Lizard attack thing at Flash’s party that weekend, and the fact that Oscorp had a conspiracy with the soda factory going on. People who’d previously liked Bubble Shock soda are purging their stores of the stuff and going on cleanses to get it out of their system, since crazed media sources are claiming that literal evil scientists were going to use it to spread some contaminant to the population.

 

The boy barely manages to make his way to his locker around groups of people huddled together, trading gossip. He’s exchanging the books he needs when he hears a girl shriek down the hallway.

 

“ _Ohmygosh_ there’s a spider on my locker!” she whines, dropping her bag and backing into the crowds. There are calls of ‘ew!’ and ‘somebody kill it!’

 

The girl latches onto the arm of the boy whose locker is next to hers and pulls him over. “You! Kill it for me!”

 

Ned cranes his neck to see who it is, and lo and behold, he’s found Peter.

 

Peter looks blankly at the arachnid intruder. “...Can’t I just take it outside?” he asks.

 

“I don’t care, just rid of it!”

 

Ned’s view is blocked then, so he hurries to finish book-changing business in his locker and slams it shut, shuffling through the crowd towards where he saw Peter disappear. He spots the boy’s head bobbing around the corner and follows. When he finally catches up with him, he’s by a cracked window overlooking the school courtyard, lifting his cupped hands to the seal.

 

As he watches, a tiny spider crawls out into the ledge and spins around like its getting its bearings. Peter just waits, looking on as it finds its way outside.

 

When it disappears over the seal, Ned leans in close. “Can you talk to them?”

 

Peter startles, jumping a little as he turns. He frowns. “What? No.”

 

“Can you summon an army of spiders?”

 

“Why would I be able to do that?”

 

“Because you’re part spider!”

 

“Shh!” The other boy covers Ned’s mouth, looking around nervously. “I’m not supposed to talk about that here.”

 

“Oo wan’ cmovr tom’hs ftr skl?”

 

Peter takes his hand back. “What?”

 

“I said, do you wanna come over to my house after school? Like today? I just got this new Star Wars LEGO set I could use help building, plus…” he lowers to a whisper, “I’ve been thinking about designs for your superhero costume!”

 

“...My what now?”

 

Ned pulls up his phone and shows Peter the photo he knows is from the Daily Bugle article, the selfie of him and Bennett. “I like the red and blue, but obviously you need your own mask and an outfit you can change into pretty fast when disaster strikes or whatever,” he rambles excitedly. “I have the _perfect_ name for you too: _Spider-Man_.”

 

Peter blinks, a small smile forming on his face. Then, seeming to register Ned’s original question, he looks away shyly and fiddles with the wrist of his sleeve. “I’ll have to ask Mr. Stark about coming over.”

 

“No problem!” Ned agrees. “Let him know you can stay for dinner if you want too. My mom’s making poi tonight, dude. It’s gonna be epic.”

 

The bell rings, signaling their need to get to class, and since it’s their shared homeroom with Ms. Warren, they trudge off in that direction together, Ned still rambling about his ideas for how they can spend their time.

 

…

 

Due to the gossip about the Lizard, nobody thinks to bring up anything else that happened at Flash’s party, a fact for which Peter is very grateful.

 

Unbeknownst to Ned, he doesn’t really feel up to another social outing endeavor... But watching the boy’s open expression and simple offers of friendship, he thinks maybe he can try.

 

They’re seated in their desks as students around them pay semi-attention to the morning announcements when Ned leans in to whisper yet another inquiry: “Dude, why is Flash staring at you?”

 

Peter shrugs uncomfortably, unwilling to explain. He doesn’t look back at the bully, but he’s felt his gaze on him since they walked in. He manages to ignore it for the majority of class, too, but as the period bell rings and they get up to leave, he sees the other make a beeline for him and internally panics. Flash doesn’t look bitter or fake-friendly like he has before, but he does look like he’s mulling something over in his head and Peter is the variable he can’t figure out.

 

“Hey, Potts,” he says, taking hold of Peter’s arm. “We need to talk.”

 

Peter recoils, pulling his arm back and looking down at his shoes. “Please just leave me alone,” he mumbles tiredly. He edges towards the door.

 

But Flash follows, undeterred. “Look, man, I don’t know if you’re like, in the witness protection program or something,” he says under his breath. “...and I don’t know if I want to know, TBH. But about Friday... Thanks. That’s all I wanted to say.”

 

Looking embarrassed, he shoves past Peter and strides away.

 

Well, that was… unexpected.

 

Ned gapes after him. “Dude,” he tells Peter. “You really do have superpowers.”

 

…

 

Tony is happy to get Peter’s text that he’s going over to Ned’s house for the afternoon, not just because he’s proud of the poor kid for still trying to make friends, but also because it gives him a little more time to do something he’s been contemplating since that morning...

 

He’s let into Queens Detention Facility without filling out the typical loads of paperwork because he’s, well, Tony Stark. An Avenger who’s signed the Accords. So yeah, getting in isn’t the hard part.

 

It’s when he’s sitting in a chair across from Dr. Curtis Connors, armed guards waiting silently behind him, that he has to remind himself to stay calm and collected. Because this man has some explaining to do, and Tony is not a patient person, and he notices that the thin wall of glass between them would be no match for the repulser of a ticked-off Iron Man.

 

The man himself looks like a recovering drug addict-- sallow skin, chapped lips, bloodshot eyes. He picks up the phone on his side of the window and gives Tony a wary glare. “What do you want from me, Stark.”

 

“Hey, sunshine!” Tony greets over his line, fingers looping absentmindedly in the curly rubber cord. “Thought you’d be glad to have a visitor. Don’t lizards get lonely?”

 

Connors rolls his eyes. “You always were insufferable, you know.”

 

“What can I say, it’s part of the charming image I’ve got going on.” Tony sits forward. “You know about images, right Connors? Like the image you helped create for your little soda company.”

 

“You have some questions for me, I suppose.”

 

“If you’re not busy,” Tony agrees, looking pointedly at his orange inmate clothing. “Which I have a feeling you’re not. First off, what’s with the soda thing in the first place. Were you really out to spread a pollutant?”

 

Connors scowls. “That’s a primitive way of saying it. In reality, it was going to be so much more.”

 

“Explain.”

 

“I saw a lot during my time overseas, Stark. I’m sure you know what I’m talking about, since half of the destruction was the doing of your own hands… Anyway, I learned that humans are weak, pathetic animals. There’s no way we can survive as we are. The increasing effects of global warming and overpopulation show that the next hundred years can only be so much worse. We’re a civilization on the brink of an apocalypse, a Pompeii before Vesuvius.”

 

“How... optimistic of you.”

 

The man is gaining momentum in his spiel so he goes on like he didn’t hear the comment. “Of course, there are some out there trying to warn the rest, but most of humankind blatantly ignores the facts. That’s why _I_ had to act. Given the time to develop things, I would have made a new species out of humankind, helped us _evolve_. People like to consume their processed food and drink like there’s no tomorrow, so what better way to spread a mutagen?”

 

Tony lowers his voice. “And what does this have to do with your ‘Archetype’ project?”

 

Connors’ lips quirk in an ugly smile. “An archetype is a base for a pattern, Mr. Stark. Don’t you make prototypes of your weapons before mass-producing them?”

 

The avenger clenches his fist. “How was he meant to be a weapon, exactly? That’s what Hydra Lady said he was, too.”

 

The inmate shrugs a shoulder nonchalantly. “Figure of speech. Weapons are strong, built to last; that’s exactly what I could’ve made of the human race. Although, I’m sure Felicia never knew the full extent of what was going on. She only got involved because she thought she’d get her own enhancements out of it,” he scoffs.

 

“Felicia?” Tony snickers for some reason. “Her name is _Felicia_?”

 

“Agent Felicia Hardy, daughter of dead ex-Hydra scientists,” Connors recounts dryly. “Who knows what sewer she’s run off to now that the Project is disbanded.”

 

“Five minutes,” a guard from behind Tony calls suddenly. The billionaire steels himself. It’s now or never.

 

“Why is he having flashbacks.”

 

Connors blinks. “What?”

 

“The kid,” Tony says impatiently. “Your ‘base for the pattern’? He’s been having flashbacks, like traumatic memories, and I want to know _why_.”

 

He studies the scientist for ticks, but the man just looks down thoughtfully. “I knew we should’ve started with a cleaner slate,” he says slowly. “There were bound to be side effects. What I wouldn’t give to run more tests on him…”

 

“Yeah, well, you can’t,” Tony bites out. “And you wanna translate the mystic bullcrap you just spouted into English for the class?”

 

Connors raises his eyes to Tony’s. “He’s your pet now. Why don’t you figure it out?” He smirks, hanging up his phone on the reciever before Tony can reply.

 

(See, this is the type of behavior Tony doesn’t deal with well.)

 

He reigns in his anger, though, because time’s up anyway and the idiot clearly won’t say anything else right now. Calling behind him that they’re done, Tony hangs up his own phone and turns back to Connors.

 

The billionaire puts one hand up on the glass, fingers splayed in a flat palm. Connors frowns at him, bewildered. Tony nods his head at the hand and waits. Slowly, without breaking eye contact, the scientist raises his hand to put it over Tony’s on the glass. Just as it touches, Tony removes his hand and uses it to flip him off.

 

He gets up and struts out to the muffled sound of Connor’s indignant yelling.

 

…

 

The first thing Peter says when Tony arrives to pick him up from Ned’s house that evening is an exclaimed, “Yeet!” as he throws himself into the passenger seat.

 

“What the heck is a yeet,” Tony asks.

 

“Ned taught me some vines and memes!” the obviously hyped-up child informs him.

 

“Oh, boy, kiddo.”

 

The kid goes off excitedly about the things he and Ned did for the last few hours, including watching an Avengers documentary, building a LEGO replica of the Death Star, playing with Ned’s sheepdog, and eating tons and tons of Polynesian food. He throws in a few slang and pop culture references that have Tony snickering, bemused.

 

Towards the end of their drive, Peter trails off, yawning hugely.

 

“Tired, buddy?” Tony asks.

 

Peter blinks owlishly at him. “A bit.”

 

 _I guess you didn’t sleep that well last night_ , Tony thinks, tightening his grip on the steering wheel.

 

“Well, do you think you can stay up a bit longer? Pepper and I want to talk to you about something.”

 

“Mm-hmm,” Peter affirms, though he instantly looks a bit more alert.

 

Soon enough the three of them are seated around the living room of the penthouse, with Peter on the loveseat and Tony and Pepper on the couch across from him. Peter is sitting rod-straight with his hands pressed together between his legs. One knee bounces as he looks back and forth between the adults and he’s biting his lip: clear signs of anxiety over the scenarios he’s no doubt conjuring up. Tony leans forward, resting his elbows on his legs and pats Peter’s vibrating knee with a reassuring smile.

 

“Don’t worry, you’re not in trouble,” he laughs. Peter relaxes a bit, giving a tentative smile.

 

“Did you have a good day at school, Peter?” Pepper asks. She’s the picture of sophisticated beauty, her legs crossed and her strawberry-blonde hair swept over one shoulder.

 

“Yes, ma’am,” he responds quietly. He’s still looking expectantly at them with those doe eyes.

 

The kid’s obvious nerves, along with the fact that Tony has never been one to beat around the bush (he’s not an emotional person, has he mentioned?) have the billionaire mentally preparing himself to take the plunge.

 

He inhales steadily and speaks on the exhale, “So, kiddo. Have you liked living here?”

 

Peter nods slowly, like he’s trying to decipher the question. “...Yes, sir.”

 

Tony nods back. His fiance puts an encouraging hand on his back.

 

“How would you like to stay here, uh, permanently?” he asks. “As… our kid?”

 

Pepper nudges him with one heel. He shoots her an irate look, but she’s just waiting, amused.

 

“Okay, I’m trying to ask if we can adopt you. There, I said it.” He feels more insecure than he probably should voicing that, but he can’t help the way his heart picks up as he watches for Peter’s response.

 

The kid doesn’t instantly laugh or go running out of the room, so Tony takes that as good, but at the same time… he doesn’t really react at all. He just looks at Tony, and maybe his eyes widen a bit. He swallows and opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again.

 

“Y-y-your kid?” he repeats in a squeak.

 

“Yeah, we were just talking about it,” Tony says casually, like he’s not barely breathing. “I kinda tried to bring it up the other day when I mentioned meeting with Fury, but that didn’t-- anyway, there are probably other places you can go if this situation doesn’t float your boat, which I’d completely understand by the way--”

 

“You want to be my dad?” Peter blurts, looking for all the world like whatever Tony says next will rearrange his universe.

 

The man blows out a breath. “Yeah.” _Heaven help you._

 

A beat.

 

Then before he can blink, Tony’s hit with an armful of spider-kid and his eyes widen. A fluffy brown head is nodding into his shoulder.

 

“Yes, yes, yes!” Peter cries.

 

As the genius struggles to process the flurry of emotions lighting him up inside, his fiance laughs and scoots closer to the two, wrapping her arms around them in a group hug.

 

A family hug.

 

For the first time since Steve Rogers smashed his arc reactor and left him for dead in Siberia, Tony Stark feels his shattered dreams of letting people in beginning to mend.

 

…

 

It’s the end of Peter’s second week of school, a Friday night around midnight, and that rambunctious kid of his ( _his son, what the heck_ ) has finally hit the hay. Tony had to give him a stern talking to when he realized the new web shooters were missing, and Peter admitted he “may have showed them off to Ned”.

 

The man couldn’t hold it against him very long, though, not when Peter had looked up at him beneath his lashes and mumbled a penitent, “Sorry, Dad,” effectively turning Tony to putty.

 

He’s leaning against the kitchen counter, sipping hot chocolate from a glass mug and scrolling through photos. He comes across the one of Peter biting into his first slice of cake, a priceless look of awe on his face. A few pictures later, and there are the other photos he’s managed to snag of him throughout the past week.

 

Warmth fills his chest. Had he only met this kid a month ago tomorrow?

 

Luckily, they've had no more trouble with traumatic flashbacks. There was only one unusual moment in the car on Wednesday when a song came on the radio and Peter stiffened and got a far-away look in his eyes, saying simply, “I know this song from somewhere…” when Tony asked him what was up. Odd, considering he’s only heard the music Tony’s showed him. Maybe he heard it at school?

 

His screen suddenly lights up with an incoming call and Tony frowns. Why is Rhodes calling at this hour?

 

“Yo, what’s--” he answers, but his friend interrupts, sounding urgent.

 

“Channel 7, turn it on now.”

 

Tony’s frown deepens, but he does turn on the TV, flipping the channel and feeling dread creep up. He expects to see some breaking news report about an alien attack, or a spotting of a Rogue Avenger.

 

(If only it were one of those.)

 

Instead, there’s a late-night covering of a more domestic story. A man and a woman are seated before a reporter, looking disheveled and teary-eyed as they answer questions. It’s a rerun from earlier in the day. Labels beneath the man and woman identify them as Mary and Richard Parker.

 

“ _Please_ , if he’s watching this… we just want you to know we love you so much, sweetie-kins. W-we’re sorry for whatever we did to make you leave. Just come back to us,” the woman blubbers, wiping her nose with a crumpled tissue.

 

“It’s been a bit over a month since he ran away, but we’re not giving up hope,” the man says strongly, with the air of suppressing great emotion. He puts an arm around his wife. “If anyone knows anything… please, just help us get our boy home safe.”

 

The reporter turns sadly to the camera. “Again, here’s the photo of the missing teenager from Queens,” he says. “If you have any information to his whereabouts, please call the number below.”

 

A picture pops up full-screen and Tony’s mug slips from his fingers, shattering glass and hot liquid spectacularly across the kitchen tiles and his heart plummets along with the mess on the floor because--

 

It’s Peter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :O !!


	10. Ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The kid takes it all in with eyes that flicker back and forth across Tony’s face, confused. “You’re giving me away?” he asks finally, like that’s the only thing he’s registered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember that time this fic was 1/5? then it was 3/10... then it was 5/12... now it's 10/15. It's fine I know exactly what I'm doing... (maybe)... I just underestimate how long it takes to get there
> 
> also this chap goes out to cinnamon-roll-parker on tumblr because she flipped a lid on me on that site when she found out it was me writing this, and now we're bffs. love you bff. your excitement made me write this faster <3
> 
> if anyone else wants to flip a lid on me, my tumblr is the-reverse-mermaid c: i like flippin lids with yall

“Again.”

 

A digital beep sounds over the computer speakers. Tony paces as he waits, fidgeting with everything he passes. He’s close to throwing something (most likely the wrench he’s absentmindedly picked up) by the time FRIDAY finally responds.

 

“Fourth analysis complete. DNA sample from Peter Potts is a 98% biological match with the DNA on record for missing teenager Peter Benjamin Parker, with the excepting 2% being the arachnid alterations in Mr. Potts’ genetic makeup.”

 

 _Peter_. Why hadn’t Tony questioned how that caught on so easily?

 

The first thing he did after seeing that news segment was go back and comb the bits of files he got on Project: Archetype. Despite describing in detail the gene-splicing process and potential use of Hydra science for creating a test subject, there isn’t any direct reference to _Peter_ being grown in whole. That had just been the assumption Tony made.

 

Next he watched and rewatched the news segment with Mary and Richard and looked up their story online. He’s practically got the details memorized now: Their 15-year-old son ‘ran away’ a week before Tony infiltrated Bubble Shock; they reported him missing, searching locally and with increasing anxiety as no sign of him turned up; and finally pushed to get on the news to make a more far-reaching plea for help.

 

There are photos of the kid and his parents posted on their awareness Facebook page, complete with comments from friends and teachers wishing him a safe return. And all the while, the boy looks identical to the one sleeping down the hall from Tony’s room.

 

He thinks back to Connor’s words: “ _I knew we should’ve started with a cleaner slate… there were bound to be side effects.”_

 

That could easily be interpreted as “we should’ve more thoroughly memory-wiped the kid we abducted off the street”.

 

He shudders to think of the implications of that… if Peter really is the missing Parker boy, he’s been through some awful traumas... What other explanation could there be for the flashbacks?

 

Still he clings to the shreds of data that don’t add up.

 

“If Peter and this kid are one and the same, then why doesn’t he have a belly button?” he demands, stopping to rake his hands through his hair for the millionth time that sleepless night. “Any natural-born human has a belly button.”

 

“His navel may have been surgically removed upon his abduction,” the AI suggests, ever a dream-crusher. “Such a procedure would provide a harmless and small-scale way to test Hydra bioprinting research.”

 

It’s no more difficult to believe than the fact that they grew him from scratch, he supposes. The genius shoves the heels of his hands in his eyes. “FRIDAY, you’re not helping my denial.”

 

“You programmed me to use logic even in stressful situations, Boss.”

 

He cracks one eye open and glares at the ceiling as if that’ll make any difference. “And how about his age, huh? When I first found him, your scanner clocked his age at 12 hours old.”

 

“Perhaps it was malfunctioning, Boss. You’ve barely used that function enough to know its accuracy. It is also possible that the measurement taken reported the time lapsed since his biology was altered.”

 

The billionaire collapses onto a stool, still clutching his head in his hands. He stays still and silent for a long while, a sharp contrast to his restless energy of the past few hours.

 

A forfeit.

 

“Crap, FRIDAY…” he says shakily at last. “I just told him he could stay. How am I supposed to turn around and hand him off to strangers?”

 

Of course the smart aleck AI has no response for him _now_.

 

His mind begs for sleep, so he can rest and then wake up and have this all be a dream. Checking his watch, Tony feels his heart drop to his shoes because it’s nearly 6AM and soon enough he’ll have to tell Pepper what’s going on. Maybe she can convince him this is a good thing. She likes Peter too and she’ll be sad to see him go, but she’s bound to see the bright side, which is that the Parkers will be overjoyed to get their missing child back.

 

But Peter…  What is he supposed to tell Peter?

 

…

 

Late morning sunshine illuminating the New York skyline and streaming through his window is a gentle wake-up call for one dozing spider-boy. He allows himself to wake lazily, blinking and stretching like a content cat.

 

And is he content? Yes. Yes, he is.

 

(Any time he doubts it, he just has to recall that he can openly call Tony “Dad” now.)

 

Going to Ned’s last week had been a great idea for lots of reasons; for one, he found out what it means to have a real friend. Ned is genuine and silly and he never makes fun of Peter for not knowing things. For another, there are now a dozen plus drawings of Spider-Man outfit and logo ideas— the creation of which had caused them both to nerd out _a lot_ — stashed in his backpack.

 

But maybe most importantly, Ned’s house is where he got the idea for what he wants to do today.

 

The Leeds’ humble apartment is a cozy, welcoming kind of place, with family keepsakes like paintings of the Hawaiian beach and seashell art adorning the walls. Ned’s room is crammed full of posters and books and figurines that all have memories attached to them. As his new friend enthusiastically told him the stories behind each keepsake, Peter realized something that he hadn’t picked up on in the neat and tidy rooms of Mr. Stark’s tower: sometimes, beloved items aren’t valuable because they’re useful or expensive, but because they were given as a gift from someone important.

 

When Mr. Stark and Ms. Potts had sat him down and asked Peter to be part of their family, it was easily the best moment of Peter’s life so far. He couldn’t have imagined being so happy _at_ and _with_ and _because_ of someone.

 

He thinks that’s what “I love you” means.

 

That happy energy has been bouncing around inside him all week like the atoms of a confined gas, gaining more and more momentum. There’s only one thing he can think of to let it out, and that’s thanks to one particular framed picture at Ned’s house.

 

“What’s this one?” he’d asked curiously, gesturing to a crayon drawing displayed proudly over the kitchen table. The characters depicted are wobbly at best.

 

Mrs. Leeds smiled warmly as she’d bustled about setting cutlery on the table. “That’s my most prized possession,” she’d proclaimed.

 

“ _Mom_ ,” Ned whined beside Peter. He put his hands over his face as though embarrassed, but Peter could see him smiling.

 

“It’s true, _kaʻu keiki_ ,” she insisted. Then, to Peter, “That’s the drawing Ned gave me for Mother’s Day when he was 5. It’s the first gift I got as a mother from one of my children and I love it very dearly. See how he drew us holding hands?”

 

“There’s a reason I’m in a science school and not an art school,” Ned pointed out. “Just look at our arms-- they have, like, 4 joints each.”

 

Mrs. Leeds just tussled her son’s hair fondly before heading back to the kitchen. “It is a work of art to me,” she called over her shoulder.

 

Ned was more than happy to lend Peter some crayons and drawing paper for further superhero drawings at home, but that’s not all they’re for, now. As soon as he’s awake and dressed, Peter snags a banana and cereal bar from the kitchen for breakfast and runs back to his room to get to work.

 

Each haphazard stroke of color is an outlet; bit by bit his abstract emotions are pinned down in legible form. He finds that he, like Ned, is no star artist… but if Mrs. Leeds’ sentimentality is anything to go by, it hopefully won’t matter.

 

A couple of hours later, he surveys his work and nods, satisfied. When FRIDAY informs him that Mr. Stark wants to meet with him in the living room, Peter feels a coil of nervous excitement wind through him.

 

He carefully picks up his drawing and goes bounding out the door.

 

…

 

It turns out, Tony doesn’t tell Peter. He _can’t_.

 

Tony Stark may put up an aloof front at times; he may like appear that he knows what he’s doing for the sake of his teammates and the press alike; but one thing Tony Stark has never claimed to be is perfect. It took being a hostage in Afghanistan to knock his moral compass into pointing in the right direction, for crying out loud.

 

Ever since then, it’s like he’s been paying penitence for his sins; taking one hit after another as he struggles to rewrite his legacy, making increasingly desperate attempts to use what he’s got left to do what’s right.

 

Seems like the more he tries, the more it hurts. (Looking at you, Sokovia Accords.)

 

So is he surprised? Once the initial shock wears off, he can’t say he is. This is just more proof that the universe gets off on his suffering.

 

It’s the same pattern: he tries to do what’s right by adopting this kid, even starts to care about him like a son, and then come to find out he’s way out of line. The kid’s already taken.

 

Maybe he’d kept the boy at arms’ length from the beginning because he subconsciously expected something like this to happen... and yet his hopes got out of check all the same and here he is pushing down the grief of a future lost.

 

Like designing blueprints for a castle, only to find out that your building material has been sand all along. Collapsible at a touch.

 

Another day in the life of Tony Stark.

 

He can barely stand to look up when the kid comes running into the living room around one in the afternoon, a sheet of paper in hand.

 

“Tony, I was thinking!” he’s already calling excitedly, “Ned said their dog is really good at protecting them from, like, intruders, so what if we got one too? Not that the tower security isn’t great, because it definitely— uh…” he stops short, freezing up at the sight of the two strangers seated on the couch. “Oh, hello. Sorry, I didn’t know you had visitors over. I’ll just—”

 

He makes to back out, but the genius forestalls him. “Actually, kiddo, can you come sit here a minute? I called them here to see you.”

 

“Me? O-okay...” Peter’s confusion visibly deepens but he does as he’s told, tentatively padding over and seating himself on the couch beside Tony. He sets the paper he’d been carrying face-down on the coffee table and taps his fingers on his knees, looking up at the company shyly. “Nice to meet you. I’m Peter.”

 

This is where, in Tony’s vain imaginations, the man and woman he’s been grilling for the past hour take one look at Peter and say, ‘oh, there’s been a mistake; this isn’t our kid.’

 

Instead, they stare at him with wide eyes, speechless and dumbfounded. Peter squirms uncomfortably under their gaze, shooting a glance at Tony as if expecting him to intervene, but the billionaire avoids his eyes.

 

Suddenly the woman gives a shuddering sob and everyone’s attention snaps to her. “Peter…?” she whispers in a voice thick with emotion. “Is that really you, sweetie-kins?”

 

Peter’s brow furrows. “Uh… yes? Who are you?”

 

She gasps, her eyes filling with tears. Her husband puts a hand on her back, but he looks just as devastated by the quiet question.

 

Tony clears his throat uncomfortably, finally looking at the boy and offering a smile that makes him feel like he’s dying. He hopes there’s not as much pain in his eyes as there is in his chest. “Peter, this is Mary and Richard Parker. They’re your—“

 

Before he can finish, Mrs. Parker throws herself forward, arms encircling Peter in a tight hold. The boy stiffens.

 

“Sweetie-kins, it’s me, it’s _Mom_ ,” she sobs, cradling his head in claw-like fingers. “Don’t you remember your Mommy?”

 

“Mary, Mr. Stark just explained that he’s lost his memory. Don’t overwhelm him,” the man warns gently, but he too looks at Peter imploringly. “Son, do you… do you recognize us at all?”

 

Mrs. Parker pulls away enough to look at Peter’s face but doesn’t relent her grip on his shoulders. His hair is mussed up from her touch and his eyes dart between them fearfully, like a mouse before two hungry cats. “I… I d-don’t…” he turns to Mr. Stark with pleading eyes. “I don’t understand. What’s going on?”

 

Tony feels himself start to dissociate under that trusting gaze. “These are your parents, buddy,” he hears himself say.

 

“We’ve been looking for you for w-weeks,” the woman says with a hearty sniff. “Your daddy and I have been worried sick. We thought we’d lost our b-baby boy!”

 

She leans in to plant a kiss on Peter’s cheek, but the boy scrambles out of her hold, getting to his feet. The woman trembles and her husband pulls her back to his embrace, muttering assurances and trying to get his son’s attention, but Peter only has eyes for Tony.

 

“But _you’re_ my dad,” he says, like an accusation. His hands are clenched into fists at his sides.

 

“Kid…” The lump in Tony’s throat doesn’t let him say more.

 

“We’re here to take you home, son,” Mr. Parker says gently, trying to take Peter’s hand. The kid pulls away, looking at Richard like his touch burned.

 

“Please, please come with us, sweetie. When you see your room, your things, everything you left behind... you’ll definitely remember us,” Mary pleads.

 

Peter shakes his head. “I wasn’t... I’m not- I don’t… I’d remember if—“

 

“Peter,” Tony manages, drawing the kid’s panic-stricken gaze. One again he falters under the sheer amount of trust he sees shining there. The billionaire’s own eyes are stinging dangerously, but he refuses to blink or look away because the kid deserves that much. “I know what you’re thinking, but the facts check out. You weren’t made in the factory like we were led to believe… Oscorp most likely plucked you off the streets and did something to make you forget their experiments.” He swallows, glancing at Mary and Richard. “Your parents have been looking for you, and they’ve been worried sick. I already explained to them what happened, that you’re different now, and it’s okay… this is- this is what has to happen.”

 

The kid takes it all in with eyes that flicker back and forth across Tony’s face, confused. “You’re giving me away?” he asks finally, like that’s the only thing he’s registered.

 

“It’s not like that,” Tony chokes. “They love you, buddy.”

 

Peter’s breath hitches ever so slightly. He glances down at the paper he set on the coffee table earlier, then locks back on Tony. “I thought _you_ loved me…” he whispers.

 

Tony opens his mouth and nothing comes out.

 

 _This is for the best,_ he thinks mechanically.

 

Mr. Parker stands and steps forward cautiously. “We appreciate everything you’ve done for him, Stark. Mary and I understand if you two need a minute to say goodbye before we go…” he suggests.

 

Peter breaks his eye contact with Tony, and the break feels like a fissure opening up between them. The kid distinctly turns away from him and looks up at Mr. Parker.

 

“S-sorry…” he mumbles, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. “I, uh… I guess… I guess I’ll go get my shoes, then.” He sounds lost. He turns robotically and plods off, leaving the trio of adults to themselves again.

 

The silence in his wake is the definition of uncomfortable, at least for Tony. He feels like he should say something to the couple; a reassurance that Peter will adjust, that he’s just shocked at the revelation, that he’ll remember himself soon... but he doesn’t feels up to it. No, he feels more like locking himself in a dark room and being alone for hours.

 

Which is weird, because this is a good thing, right?

 

Peter Benjamin Parker has been found. He has a real life, a real family. He can go back to them and forget all about Tony Stark. Maybe he feels sad about it now, but that’s just because it’s a change and change is hard. He’s sure to bounce back soon enough.

 

(Tony wishes he could say the same for himself.)

 

For their part, the Parkers look relieved and grateful.

 

“Thank you so much for calling us,” Mary gushes through yet more tears. “After all this time, we weren’t even sure if our boy was alive…” Her voice breaks.

 

Tony tips his head in response. “He’s a good kid. You must be good parents to him.”

 

Richard stares at Tony intently. “You’ve done good by him, yourself, Stark.”

 

It takes only a minute for Peter to come back, shoes on his feet and his hands hanging limp at his sides. He goes up to Richard (not even looking at Tony) and says, “Ready,” in a dead tone.

 

The man gives him a friendly thump him on the back, pulling him to his side. “Atta-boy, sonny,” he praises. “I know this is a lot to take in, but everything’s gonna be fine. You’ll see.”

 

“I’ll make your favorite home-cooked meal when we get home, sweetie-kins,” Mary coos, fluttering her hands over Peter. “I just _know_ that’ll jog your memory.”

 

Peter nods lifelessly and allows the woman to wrap him up in a hug as they make their way to the elevator.

 

“Again, thank you so much,” Richard says by way of goodbye. “You have no idea how much good you’ve done today.”

 

(Ha.)

 

“Happy to help. Take care,” the genius says with forced feeling. He stands when they leave and watches the last sliver of Peter’s downcast face until the elevator doors slide shut.

 

The instant they’re gone, his legs give out.

 

At some point after he’s been sitting there for… minutes? Hours? ...he realizes his head is now level with the coffee table and the piece of paper Peter placed there is left behind untouched. Partly out of curiosity and partly for something to do, he reaches out and turns it over.

 

The other side a crayon drawing of two figures: one with facial hair that is clearly a shot at depicting Tony, and the other a boy in a white gown— obviously Peter— holding his hand.

 

Along the bottom is written in careful font, “I love you, Dad”.

 

…

 

It’s not until about 20 minutes into the car ride with his ‘mom’ and ‘dad’ that Peter realizes both adults have been silent since they left the Tower. He’s been too busy staring out the window and trying to digest the turn of events to say anything to them, either. Now that it occurs to him, though, he actually has a lot of questions.

 

He’s behind the driver’s seat in their compact car, so he looks to the woman in the passenger side. “Where are we going?” he asks for starters.

 

Mrs. Parker glances sideways at him. “We’re going home, of course, honey-kins,” she says sweetly, though it’s an odd gesture considering she’s not smiling. She easily goes back to ignoring him in favor of scrolling through her phone.

 

Peter’s hairs on the back of his neck prickle, and he turns his head slightly to see Mr. Parker watching him in the rear-view mirror. It makes him uncomfortable for a reason he can’t pin down. He slumps in his seat, averting his gaze.

 

In another ten minutes, they’ve exit the freeway and entered a mostly residential community. Finally they pull up the drive to a small two-story home at the end of a lane. It’s still early afternoon and the neighborhood bustles with life around them: children yelling as they play ball in the street, a man mowing his lawn nearby, and somewhere a dog is barking. Peter takes a deep breath as he steps out of the car, looking over the scene like he’s scanning it with a mental metal detector for signs of familiarity, but...

 

It’s all foreign.

 

“Come on, son,” the man (he doesn’t want to call him ‘father’ yet, because someone else still has that name in Peter’s mind, even if that someone doesn’t want it anymore) tells him, clamping a hand on his shoulder and steering him towards the house. He unlocks it and the door swings open. Both adults stand behind him, waiting for him to go in.

 

Slowly, timidly, Peter steps over the threshold.

 

Despite the sunny day outside, the house is dark. Shades are drawn over the windows and very few light fixtures adorn the ceilings. Very little adorns the house in general, as a matter of fact; it’s all blank walls and pristine floors. A few steps later and the door behind him thumps closed, closing out the rays of light and making him jump a little.

 

The woman pushes past him and leads the way into the kitchen, flicking on a dusty chandelier. “I’ll get lunch started for you boys. Why don’t you have a seat, Peter? Dad and you can chat while you wait, how does that sound?”

 

Peter hums noncommittally as he takes a seat at the kitchen island. He looks around, but this room is as disappointingly blank as the others. There are no pictures or framed drawings like there were in Ned’s house. It’s not bright and lived-in like Mr. Stark’s penthouse. It doesn’t seem like the kind of place Peter would be happy.

 

(Then again, he has had a few not-so-happy memories lately. There’s a lot to re-learn about himself.)

 

“Did I… did I really grow up here?” he asks.   

 

Richard scrapes back the barstool next to his and sits down by him. “You sure did, sonny. It’s just empty like this right now because we’re preparing to move.”

 

Peter nods. That makes sense. He opens his mouth to ask why and where, but Mary interrupts that by coming back over to them.

 

She sets down two glasses of juice on the counter. “Here you go! Your favorite flavor, sweetie,” she tells Peter, sliding one towards him eagerly. Richard takes the other and sips it casually.

 

The boy picking up his drink and tasting it respectfully. He immediately wrinkles his nose in displeasure. He used to like this? It seems overly sweet and leaves a bad taste in his mouth. But both adults are watching him closely, so he gulps it down to appease them and offers a strained smile. “Th-thank you.”

 

Mary beams at him before turning back to the refrigerator, and maybe he imagines it but just for a second she looks… familiar all of a sudden? There’s a glint in her eyes he feels like he’s seen before. Far from being comforting, though, it makes him shiver. He looks away and meets eyes with Richard.

 

“So, um, what do you do for work?” Peter asks. At the man’s raised eyebrow, he adds, “I’m sorry, I know I should probably know, but…”

 

The man shrugs. “It’s fine. You’ll catch up with things soon enough. As for my line of work, I’m a chemist.”

 

Peter perks. “Really? I like chemistry too! I mean you probably know that. I guess maybe… maybe I got it from you?”

 

Richard smiles tightly. “You're not wrong.”

 

The microwave beeps and the smell of reheated pasta wafts out when Mary opens it. She scoops portions out onto three plates and brings them over, pulling up her own seat. “Bon appetit!” she grins, handing them forks. Mumbling thanks, Peter begins poking at his spaghetti and takes a half-hearted bite. He’s not really feeling hungry.

 

A few minutes into the meal, he’s _really_ not feeling hungry; the bits of food he managed to eat are making him feel queasy. He pushes his plate away a bit so he has room to prop his elbows on the table and cradles his forehead in his hands, suddenly dizzy.

 

“How you doing, kid?” Mary asks. The ‘kid’ as opposed to her usual fluffy nicknames strikes him as odd. With Tony that name feels like an endearment, but from her it’s de-personalizing.

 

“I-I…” he swallows thickly. “I feel f-funny…”

 

Out of nowhere he feels so _tired_ , almost too tired to lift his arms anymore. He tips forward and lays his head to the cool granite countertop, blinking heavily.

 

He might’ve zoned out for a moment after that, he isn’t sure. His stool tips underneath him and he can’t move fast enough to steady himself, but Richard quickly catches him under the arms and lowers him to the floor, lying him on his back.

 

It takes Peter a moment to realize what happened, and another moment after that to wonder why it’s happening. His head feels like it’s barely tethered to his body like a balloon trying to float away. The white-washed walls and figure of the adults above him blur together like an oil slick.

 

“Wha’s happ’ning?” Peter slurs. His thoughts have thickened like a river turning to mud, but one thought that’s coming in clearly is _fear._

 

“Finally,” Mary groans. “I thought he’d go down faster than that. I put at least three doses in there.”

 

“Advanced metabolism. It would take longer for him,” the man says.

 

Something is happening. Something important and _bad_ is happening.

 

But Peter can’t think. He can’t move.

 

“I have to admit, that was easier than I thought it’d be.”

 

“Well, you did lay it on pretty thick back there, ‘Mrs. Parker”.”

 

A snicker. “Think I should take up acting, Osborn?”

 

The woman is doing something… she’s taking something off her face…? It peels off like a gel mask, and then she leans over him and Peter’s breath catches because he recognizes her now—

 

“Y-y-you’re not—“ he tries. The fear is choking him now.

 

“What, not your mommy?” she mocks. “Yeah, right. Like I said the first time we met, kid: you’re nothing but a glorified lab rat. Ready to run some mazes for us?”

 

His last grasping thought is a hopeless plea sent out like a message in a bottle into the vast emptiness of ocean:

 

_Tony. He needs Tony._

 

Then there are hands maneuvering him again but he can’t feel them because the helium balloon that is his consciousness has drifted away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im curious...how far into the chapter did it take you to figure out?


	11. Eleven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Norman Osborn,” he says, the name clicking into place like a puzzle piece in Peter’s mind. “Nice to finally meet you, child. Or rather, for you to meet me; I like to think I know you already.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey friends! I thought long and hard about how to take this one and it turned out the longest chapter yet. And apparently i didn't fool many of you last chap- you're all too clever for my nonsense lol. Hey! I want to let you know that I decided on the actors I imagine playing my interpretation of the comic book characters in this story:
> 
> *Felicia Hardy- think Anne Hathaway’s Catwoman, only with white-blond hair and light blue eyes  
> *Dr. Connors- I just see the same character’s actor in The Amazing Spider-Man (2012)  
> *Norman Osborn- Tom Cavanagh (Dr. Wells from the Flash TV show), but green-eyed  
> *Harry Osborn- Harrison Osterfield, only more skinny and depressed  
> *(And obviously Tom Holland for Peter and RDJ for Tony etc etc)
> 
> ...Hope that helps you to imagine things more clearly! Enjoy~
> 
> *warning* what might be considered body horror?... Not graphic i promise. Just potentially disturbing.

Music. The first thing he’s aware of is the music playing. It’s poor-quality, playing from something like a simple phone speaker, but his attention hones in on it all the same because it’s there and it’s something other than the black static he’s coming out of. Notes wash over him like waves lapping at his consciousness, with lyrics floating elusively in and out of reach. The more he wakes, the more he manages to catch.

 

 _...Well, some nights, I wish that this all would end..._ _  
_ _And some nights, I'm scared you'll forget me again…_

 

It fills his chest with an achy sort of familiarity. He knows the song, knows he knows all the words. Which is weird because he’s only heard it— once? In the car with Mr. Stark? But before that… before that…

  
_What do I stand for?_  
_What do I stand for?_  
_Most nights, I don't know..._

 

The second thing he processes is touch on his right hand. His sleep-limp fingers are being manually extended and flexed, his palm turned this way and that. Whoever is doing the puppeteering has a grip around his wrist that in turn jostles his arm and shoulder. His awareness follows the touch on his hand back up his arm and over himself: he’s lying flat on his back on something soft, torso exposed to the cool air, arms laid at his sides.

 

His body feels like it weighs a million pounds, heavy and immobile. His throat is dry as sandpaper. Had he more energy, he would’ve made an effort to open his eyes and see what is going on, what with the odd music and touch (and maybe ask Mr. Stark for some water because wow, his tongue feels like a stone in his mouth) but as it is he can only feel apathy. This brief foray into the world of the living has been interesting but he’s ready to slip away into nothingness again…

 

Only as he’s jolted out of that resolution when suddenly, there is a sharp sting on the pad of his index finger. With a yelp like a dog having its tail stepped on, he attempts to yank his hand away from the offending touch and start upright, only to find he can’t get far because of some weight on his wrists and torso keep him where he is. Confused, he finally opens his eyes and blinks rapidly.

 

“There you are! Excuse my eagerness,” a voice says pleasantly. “I just couldn’t wait for you to wake up before having a look. I usually am a very patient person, I swear.”

 

Peter feels a sense of deja vu from back to when he met Tony in the bathroom and the man had spoken to him-- meaning, Peter knows English enough to understand what each word means, but the way they’re strung together and offered to him doesn’t make any sense.

 

As the spots in his vision clear, he finds himself in a dimly-lit bedroom with wooden floors and darkly painted walls. The only light source is an LED lamp with a head like a spotlight set up and angled over him, illuminating where his hand still lays restrained, now curled into a fist to avoid whatever pricked his finger. The soft surface he is lying on is a portable padded cot, the cheap kind used to hold patients in clinics. It’s to the metal rail on each side of the cot that his wrists are held by zip ties. His hoodie and T-shirt are gone and across his bare chest a belt is strapped around the back of the cot, holding him in place.

 

He furrows his brows, trying to make sense of this. His mind is sluggish for some reason, and when he tugs at the restraints again, he can’t budge them. He’s bent metal before, but right now he can’t fight against plastic and leather. Alarm crawls unders his skin, making his breathing pick up.

 

He’s trapped.

 

“Wha- wh…” he gasps. He shakes his head, trying to claw his way through the fog in his mind. “W-where am I?”

 

There’s a rubber snapping sound. He looks up, but whoever is in front of him is concealed in the darkness beyond the lamplight. All he can see is hands, which are removing white latex gloves and reaching over for something on a piece of furniture Peter can’t make out. The music cuts out abruptly.

 

“It’ll come back to you,” the person says casually. He holds up a small rectangular iPod for Peter to see, its screen lit and scrolling the name of the song that had just been playing. “I hope you don’t mind this. My son’s ‘Top 25 most played’ has become something of a thinking playlist for me...” he trails off, seemingly distracted, before setting the device back down.

 

The sudden silence is deafening, ominous even in the wake of the upbeat song that now seems very out-of-place. Peter listens and can make out the muffled sound of rain pelting the side of the house.

 

A house, not the Tower. This man, not Tony.

 

Recent events come back to him like drops of water out of a faucet— one by one, and then all at once in a rush:

 

Meeting his ‘real parents’. Knowing that didn’t make sense but accepting it because Tony did. Because he loved Tony and Tony wouldn’t lie.

 

Tony giving him away after telling him he could stay. (Realizing that is like experiencing it anew and it _hurts_.)

 

The neighborhood, the empty house. Uncomfortable silence, quiet questions, a foul-tasting drink… and then out of nowhere feeling sick— feeling sick because of something his ‘parents’ had done, but it turned out they weren’t his parents after all? Because right before he passed out he’d seen the woman removed her disguise and it was the woman who hurt him, who called him their ‘labrat’—

 

And now he’s tied down on a makeshift exam table that reminds him eerily of the room he was ‘made’ in. The room he’d thought he’d escaped from. Where Tony promised he’d never have to go back.

 

He doesn’t realize he’s hyperventilating until he starts to get light-headed from lack of air and his head thumps back against the table weakly; his body is forcing him to breathe or pass out. He sucks in a shuddering gasp. His arms which had been twisting uselessly at the restraints more and more since he woke now fall still, tingling numbly.

 

“That’s it,” the man croons, shifting forward so that more of his front is visible. Peter still can’t see his face. “Just breathe. Don’t fight it.”

 

Peter blinks, trying to see through the stark contrast of light and dark in the room. “What’s wrong with me?” he asks hoarsely.

 

The man throws his hands up in a broad gesture to himself. “Chemist, remember? I’m good with drugs, little spider. The concoction Felicia gave you will still be in your system for a while longer. How does it feel to be as weak as everybody else? Unnerving?”

 

The condescending way he speaks... it jogs something in Peter’s memory. He knows that he knew the woman under her disguise, but he wasn’t awake long enough to see the man. Surely it’s not Curt Connors, since that man was taken into custody.

 

“Who are you?”

 

An amused chuckle. Peter makes out a full-toothed smile reflecting some of the lamp light. “I’ll have you know, I prefer to work in the dark. However, I’m curious what your reaction will be, so I’ll make an exception...”

 

He shifts forward. The man who’d claimed to be his father comes into view, only like the woman, he has shedded some elements of disguise. Before, his irises were brown; now the eyes latching onto Peter’s are an acidic green.

 

Peter knows them.

 

“Norman Osborn,” he says, the name clicking into place like a puzzle piece in Peter’s mind. “Nice to finally meet you, child. Or rather, for you to meet me; I like to think I know you already.”

 

“Osborn…” Peter repeats, closing his eyes. A fragment of memory plays behind his lids.

 

 _“_ — _a disgrace to the Osborn name. Drugs? How can you be so reckless?!”_

 

 _“I’m sorry, sir… I j-just wanted to_ — _”_

 

_A fist slams against the wall, cracking plaster. A jolt of fear._

 

 _Yelling. “I’m sorry, do you think I care what you want? What gave you that delusion? You’re not a little kid anymore, Harry. You need to_ grow up _!”_

 

Peter startles when his head is suddenly yanked up by a fist in his hair. He blinks and sees the face from his nightmares made real looming over him, cast in shadow. The friendly facade is gone, replaced with something more sinister. His heart pounds loudly as the two stare at each other for a wordless moment, frightened brown eyes locked on unreadable green. Wind whistles outside like the scream of a dying woman.

 

After an endless thirty seconds, Norman finally whispers, “Tell me. Tell me what you’re thinking.” It’s a deadly command that Peter doesn’t think he could deny if he tried.

 

“Am… am I Harry Osborn?” the boy voices timidly.

 

Norman maintains his hold for a moment longer, then releases him, stepping back and resuming his seat calmly as though nothing happened. Peter’s scalp throbs.

 

“Personal identity is a funny thing, isn’t it?” he says, like he’s commenting on the weather. His non-threatening demeanor is back, giving Peter whiplash. He reaches for an object on the desk beside him and comes back with a magnifying glass. Peter can do nothing to resist as the man takes his hand again and continues examining his healing finger tip. “What makes you think you are Harry?”

 

His eyes glance up dangerously when the boy takes too long to answer. Peter swallows dryly, hurrying to avoid another show of aggression. “I’ve been r-remembering things. Bad things that happened to him.”

 

“Such as?”

 

 _Sexual abuse from Skip Westcott. Wishing to be dead. Dying._ “...You.”

 

The man doesn’t react except to pause in his study for just a second. Without looking up, he pulls an object form one coat pocket that Peter doesn’t recognize and holds it up to Peter’s palm. With a flick of his finger, a tiny flame ignites, dangerously close to the skin.

 

“Tell me, child,” he says slowly. “Do you think anything you do is your own choice?”

 

Peter gulps, watching the fire flicker. “Uh… I-I think so.”

 

Norman tips the lighter closer, watching impassively as it licks at Peter’s skin. The boy gasps, tugging uselessly and kicking out his bare feet in distress as his flesh begins to singe.

 

“Are you sure?” the man asks. He forcibly uncurls Peter’s fingers and runs the flame along each finger tip one at a time, like some twisted parody of lighting candles on a birthday cake.

 

“St-stop!” Peter begs. Terrified, frustrated tears are budding at the corners of his eyes. Did he feel helpless when he was stuck in Flash’s swimming pool? That’s nothing to this.

 

Whether by Peter’s request or of his own volition, Norman does in fact flick the lighter shut, pulling it back and surveying the reddened, blistering skin curiously.

 

“Do you think you could adhere to something with this hand in this state?” he asks as though side-tracked, looking up at Peter. “The puncture wound is already healing, but I wonder if your setules will bounce back as easily from being burned off.”

 

Peter pants, glaring. “You’re… insane…”

 

“Probably,” Norman muses. “But that’s the thing, child: I do not choose who I am, just as you do not choose who you are. Freedom of choice is an illusion. Personal identity is an illusion. There is no ‘you’ that remains constant over time; what ‘you’ are is a set of chemical circumstances that changes constantly. From the moment this universe came into being, everything was predetermined. So to answer your previous question, are you Harry Osborn? No, I think not. But then, you are also nothing and nobody.”

 

He sets Peter’s hand down and pulls up a pen and notepad, scribbling something in his notes absently. His words linger in the air, tying pretzels in Peter’s brain. He feels slightly relieved but also more confused than ever that his connection to Harry Osborn is still a mystery… and Norman’s spiel in general impresses him with a sense of _wrongness_.

 

He thinks back to Mr. Stark’s words: ‘ _you can be anything you wanna be’_.

 

So he shakes his head indignantly, even though it might get him in more trouble. Because even if he has no strength to fight back, he’s not complying with this man so easily. Tony taught him better. “You’re wrong,” he insists. “I’m Peter.”

 

“Yes, so I hear,” Norman says, sitting back and sizing Peter up. “‘For the love of Pete,’ wasn’t it? Quaint.” At Peter’s puzzled look, he cracks a half smile. “Didn’t I tell you just now, I already know you? Two words, kid: naturalistic observation.”

 

So basically he’s been stalking him this whole time. Was he ever really free? The boy tries to be brave and ignore the chill climbing up his spine. “What do you want?” he whispers.

 

Norman’s smile widens. “Oh, I’m just a curious man. I like having answers as much as the next scientist. Our resources may be limited here, but I have some ideas in mind that should generate good data…”

 

“Tony will come.” Peter’s voice is surprisingly strong (whether for his or Norman’s benefit, he doesn’t know. Probably both.) “Tony will figure out what you’ve done and he’ll come and he’ll stop you.”

 

Norman puts his hands on his knees, pushing himself into a standing position. Once again he leans over Peter, not a hint of light reflecting in his eyes. Peter shivers but forces himself not to look away.

 

“Between you and me, I’m counting on it,” he whispers, making the boy’s blood run chill. “Now...” He straightens, stepping back into the dark. “I’ll be right back with a special treat. Don’t go anywhere, would you?” he says, as though Peter has a choice.

 

As his footfalls fade, Peter begins tugging at his bonds again. He can tell that whatever he’s been drugged with is slowly losing its grip, but he’s shaky and his burnt fingers _sting_ and he doesn’t manage to do more than loosen one ziptie before the man is suddenly returning, new items in hand. Peter can see that in one hand he holds a plastic water bottle sloshing with liquid, and he vows even before he sees the contents that he won’t eat or drink anything else they give him. He will regain his strength and he will get himself out of here if he has to.

 

As if reading his mind, Norman eyes the loosened bond and murmurs, “I suppose you think we’ll keep you drugged. As fun as that would be, there are tests I want to run that require your system to be clean and healthy.”

 

He pulls his chair up a little closer to the head of the cot, settling down. Besides the water bottle— which is not filled with water, but rather a thick peach-colored liquid— he holds a crown-like piece of tech covered in wires and lights. Peter eyes this warily, instantly getting a bad feeling about it.

 

“I’ll humor you, ‘Peter’. Listen carefully,” the man says. He sets both items in his lap and lays a rough hand across Peter’s forehead, brushing back his bangs. The touch is reminiscent of Tony’s gentle head pats, and coming from Norman, Peter hates it, hates it, hates it. “The brain has three parts, two hemispheres and four lobes on each side. Do you know what part of your brain this is? Answer me.”

 

The boy debates briefly if he could get away with sassing something like Mr. Stark probably would. Just like before, though, he finds himself compelled to obey the direct order, like it’s a subconsciously ingrained survival instinct.

 

“The frontal lobe,” he whispers.

 

“That’s right. And you know how you know that? Because the frontal lobe is responsible for memory, emotion and learning. This is the part of your brain where information was transferred, namely to pre-program you with all the math, science and language that you know. I suspected that some memories and the feelings associated with them may have come along for the ride.”

 

Horrific realization dawns on Peter. “They _are_ Harry’s memories. You mean... you experimented on your own son?”

 

The scientist’s response is flippant. “HYDRA’s instant learning method requires a brain to copy, and Harry wasn’t using his anymore. Don’t make it sound so dramatic.” Norman removes his hand and takes hold of Peter’s chin instead, using it to turn his head this way and that like he’s appraising a prize horse. “In any case, your DNA has nothing to do with his. I worked closely on that, and I think I did a good job, if I do say so myself. We’ll know for sure soon enough.”

 

Peter jerks his face away with a defiant glare. “I’m not yours,” he growls. “I’m a person.”

 

Norman smirks. “Again, you’re a set of circumstances, but whatever you say. Hold still, would you?”

 

He picks up the large ring-shaped device from his lap and eases it over Peter’s head. The metal is cold against his skin and he shivers, anxiety rising. The scientist fiddles over him with the headset’s loose wires, attaching individual electrodes to certain points around the boy’s head like he’s arranging the pieces on a chess board. Finally he sits back, seemingly satisfied.

 

“Here’s a mouthful of a word: electroencephalogram,” Norman says cheerfully, like he’s teaching kids on a science program on television. “Generally called an EEG for short, neurologists use it to measure electrical activity in the brain. _This_ EEG headset is _extra_ special, seeing as I tinkered with it myself. It doesn’t just measure impulses; it sends them.”

 

Norman pulls a remote from his pocket and flashes it at Peter. “For example, say that when the spider-kid regains his full abilities within the next couple hours, he stupidly thinks he’ll try to escape...” His finger comes down on a button.

 

The headset lights up, and a second later Peter _screams_.

 

There is no source of the pain; it’s just suddenly _everywhere_. It burns and freezes and cuts and tears up and down his spine and into his limbs and through his chest like all the nerves in his body have been turned to live wires.

 

It can’t last longer than a few seconds, but to Peter it is a few seconds in which he loses his perception of time, of space, of self. Eventually he finds himself back on the cot, his withered lungs spasming for air and his wide-open eyes struggling to compute images.  

 

“I hope that was demonstrative enough. I don’t like wasting time,” Norman’s voice says from somewhere out of sight. There is the sound of a bottle being uncapped, and then the lip of a syrupy drink is pressed to Peter’s lips. “Drink up, child. You’ll need your energy.”

 

…

 

Rhodey can tell when his best friend is depressed.

 

To be honest, he should by now, since they’ve been friends through a lot of Tony’s major ups and downs. He likes to think his friend couldn’t hide something from him if he tried. He’d known, back when he pulled his first stunt as a vigilante in the Iron Man suit, that the billionaire was at the center of the mystery even before he told Rhodes his identity. That was 10 years ago and he’s only gotten more and more used to Tony’s crap.

 

And maybe he teased him in the beginning, was genuinely alarmed even, when he found out about Tony’s new spider-boy ward. But when it came down to it, he could see that the two were an unexpectedly perfect pair. Peter was for Tony what many people got in the form of an emotional support animal— a caretaking responsibility, a source of comfort, an adopted family member, a best friend.

 

Then of course the kid was a gold star right back. He was sweet and sturdy enough to succeed in spite of Tony’s imperfections, and he needed Tony for the life he could give him.

 

Or, he did. Before they watched the evening news.

 

The earliest Rhodes can get to the tower is the next night, only by then his friend has already combed over everything and gone through with giving the Parkers their kid back. His contact with the billionaire has been off and on since their initial phone call, but he can tell even over text that Tony needs someone right now.

 

He finds him where he expected to find him: in his workshop, buried in distractions.

 

“Hey, Tones,” he greets cautiously. “What you workin’ on?”

 

The man doesn’t startle at his entrance, doesn’t even look up. After a long moment he mumbles without looking up, “New project.”

 

“And that is?”

 

“Honing device. For parents to locate their children when they go missing.”

 

“Tony…” Rhodes trails off, staring at his friend until he finally looks up. His eyes meet and hold Rhodey’s gaze without any emotion-- no challenge, no defiance. No apparent sadness or anger either. Just a blank stare, like the person inside has been sucked out and his body is a machine on autopilot.

 

(Rhodey can tell when his best friend is depressed.)

 

“How did he take it?” Rhodey asks gently.

 

The faintest edge of pain tightens Tony’s jaw. He exhales and looks away. “Not good. But he’ll get over it.”

 

“You can still go see him, you know.”

 

“I think I’ve gotten more than enough involved. He deserves a life free from my crap.”

 

Rhodey puts a hand on his friend’s back, easing him away from his workbench where he’s probably been hunched over with no food or water for several hours. It’s a testament to his sleepless night and lack of emotional energy that Tony doesn’t resist when he’s guided to sit on the couch.

 

“Come on, man,” Rhodey says, hand still rubbing his friend’s back as the genius hunches forward and drops his face in his hands. “You know that’s not true. I saw the way that kid looked at you; you guys are good for each other. It’s not your fault that it went down like this.”

 

Tony snorts derisively. “I should’ve known sooner.”

 

“You’re only human, Tones.”

 

It’s quiet for some time. Then the colonel prompts, “You really should visit him. Make sure he’s adjusting okay. Did his parents seem nice?”

 

His friend turns his head so that one bloodshot eye peeks at him. “Nicer than they needed to be to someone who tried stealing their son.”

 

“Stop.” Rhodey flicks Tony’s forehead, and the genius bats him away tiredly, sitting up. “The self-sabotage thing has never looked good on you, man. Especially now, when you’ve really done nothing wrong. And you know what?”

 

He leans forward, making sure Tony can’t ignore what he says next. “A parent doesn’t love his child because they’ve done anything to deserve it; a parent loves his child because they’re _his_. I like to think something like that has happened with you and Peter.”

 

Tony has a wall of insecurities built up around him like a suit of armor, ready to argue against any and all evidence in his favor, but Rhodes renders them all to sawdust with his next words:

 

“Sure, he’s got biological parents, but for what the last month is worth, he’s chosen to be _yours_ too. You’re apart of his life now. Don’t give up on that.”

 

…

 

Felicia Hardy has a taste for the finer things in life. With a skillset like hers, some might find it petty that she spends her free time shoplifting pearl necklaces and spying on celebrities for the trinkets she might be up to snatching later. In her mind, though, she’s only treating herself to the necessities. Girls just wanna have fun, right?

 

The only reason she sought out involvement with idiots like Curt Connors and Norman Osborn is that before he died, Daddy made him promise she’d get his research out there. He said it had the potential to change everything. While he was probably thinking about a way to revive Hydra, Felicia liked to think about the personal gains of such changes… like, change-a-sickly-kid-from-Brooklyn-into-Captain-America type changes. Enhancements to help her keep her foothold in a world where mutants and superheroes were becoming the norm.

 

Photoshopping family photos and hacking social media to deceive Tony Stark? She practically did that in her sleep. Of course the heist worked like a charm. Quick and easy, just her style.

 

But now that she’s been waiting a whole _week_ for Norman to finish his science games with the kid, well… she’s not a patient person.

 

“What is taking so long?” she whines, barging in on the room they’ve been keeping him for the past five days. She’s visited off and on just out of curiosity, but she doesn’t know enough about science to understand what all the tests mean.

 

This time, for whatever stupid reason, the sight that meets her eyes is the kid running on a treadmill. It’s one of the few items Norman insisted on moving into the empty house they acquired. The scientist himself is seated comfortably nearby, stopwatch and notepad in hand. He looks up at her entrance.

 

“Agent Hardy, good evening,” he nods, ignoring her question. She scowls, crossing her arms and stepping in further.

 

On the treadmill, the Archetype is panting and sweating as he runs and runs and runs. His eyes don’t even turn in her direction, so focused is he on not falling off the track. That weird helmet is still on his head. As she watches, the belt whirs more aggressively, speeding up to a rate she’s not sure that she _herself_ could keep up with. The boy seems to expect it though, like it’s been happening regularly, and he pushes himself harder. Or tries to, anyway; a moment after the new pace picks up, his foot catches sloppily on the edge of the runway and he yelps, careening face-first onto the tread. A safety pin is pulled when he falls and the track slows to a sudden stop.

 

The kid tries to push himself up on trembling arms, but they fold and collapse under him like the legs of a broken lawn chair. His body heaves with the effort of a racing heartbeat even as he loses consciousness.

 

“Three and a half hours,” Norman exclaims, crouching down. He rolls the boy onto his side and starts detaching sticky electrodes from his chest. “Heart rate only increased by seventeen percent and peak oxygen levels broke just in the last twenty minutes. Remarkable.”

 

“That better mean results are on their way, Osborn,” Felicia mutters. “I’m starting to wonder if this is worth my time.”

 

The boy blinks glassy eyes half open as he’s lifted and settled back on the makeshift bed. Norman is murmuring to him fondly, wiping his brow with a cool rag.

 

“Did you hear me?” the woman asks, annoyed. She moves to stand in front of him, blocking the kid from his view. “I’m sick of waiting while you play around with him!”

 

Slowly he looks up at her, deadly calm. When he speaks, it’s nonchalant.

 

“You’re dismissed, Agent.”

 

She blinks, her scowl deepening. “What?”

 

He stands, walking to the bed stand and rifling through its drawer’s contents. “I said, you can go. Your assistance is no longer needed.”

 

“ _Excuse_ me?” she hisses. “What the freak are you playing at, Osborn? You think you can just get me to do all this work for you and then hit the road without getting a cut? What do you think I am, your little--”

 

 _Crack_.

 

The boy on the bed jumps at the loud noise. His now-wide eyes find Felicia’s as she stumbles back, clutching her abdomen in shock. Crimson blood starts to ebb past her fingers.

 

Norman lowers his gun cooly. “You are free to go, Felicia.”

 

…

 

It’s dark and raining when Tony pulls down Forest Hills Drive to the address he’d looked up for Mary and Richard Parker.

 

He’d thought about Rhodey’s words over again and again, and maybe it was a bit selfish, but he knows he needs to check on Peter and let the kid know he still cares. If nothing else, it'll put Tony’s mind at ease. The billionaire meant to give the family at least a whole week alone, but it seems his self-control isn’t quite that strong because he only lasted a few days before he found himself in his car heading over.

 

Lightning cracks overhead as he pulls into park in the driveway. The man pulls his windbreaker a little closer before opening the door and stepping out, pulling his hood over his head and locking the car. Second thoughts fill his head as he makes the impossibly long walk up to the front door, splashing through puddles as he goes.

 

Should he have called first? What if they’re not home? What if Peter’s already remembered his old life and wants nothing to do with Tony now? Will he even want this visit?

 

He makes it under the patio and stands there a few minutes, just dripping rainwater onto the concrete and staring at the doorbell. Maybe this was a mistake…

 

Even as he stands there dithering, a noise aside from pouring rain and wind catches his attention, pulling him from his thoughts. From around the side of the house, branches snapping and someone shuddering out heavy breaths precedes the appearance of a person rounding the corner. Tony takes a small step back in surprise when the figure comes into view.

 

Her white-blonde hair is soaked and plastered to her face, and she’s hunched over, arms wrapped around her middle. Blood slicks the front of her shirt and immediately several alarm bells are blaring in Tony’s head.

 

“Holy crap,” he breathes, reaching to grasp her shoulders and get a look at the wound. “Are you okay? What happened?”

 

The woman’s knees buckle and she lands harshly in the dirt. Tony’s already got his phone out to call an ambulance but that’s when she looks up at him and--

 

“ _You_ ,” he gasps, anger and fear and a million questions flooding his mind. “What are you doing here?”   

 

“Please,” she rasps, grabbing his pant leg. “I didn’t know... h-he’s out of his mind. I wouldn’t have he-helped him if I knew…”

 

“Who now? What are you talking about?”

 

“Osborn,” she growls, coughing wetly. “He tricked me into helping him get the boy back and I… I don’t--”

 

Chills race up his spine and Tony feels the blood drain from his face.

 

Peter.

 

Peter’s in danger.

 

_Peter’s in danger and how could he let this happen somehow it was all a trap and now--_

 

“He’s in there?” Tony demands harshly, pointing to the house. “My kid is in there with the maniac who shot you?”

 

Felicia nods. Tony sees red.

 

He doesn’t need his suit to break down the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i swear i did more research for this chapter than i have for any school paper ever


	12. Twelve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Ultimately, I am a philosopher. Like all brilliant minds, I’m haunted by my theories. I had a theory to test, only part of which involves this child. Don't you see? You are the other half of the experiment, Tony Stark; you have been from the beginning.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no explanation for why this took so long... I just didn't think about writing last week for whatever reason???? i blame other fanfic writers who write so good that i just wanna read and reread other stories in my free time. i have many Bookmarks and i recommend ALL of them.

By the end of his first full day with Norman Osborn, Peter is a compliant test subject. 

 

The headset is used to shock him three more times; after that just the sight of the remote makes him obey; then all Norman has to do is reach for his pocket, no verbal threat necessary. Norman smirks as he marks “classical conditioning- successful” in his notes. 

 

He doesn’t speak to Peter about his plans anymore; just gives firm directives and nauseating praise when obeyed. Like he’s training a dog. Peter doesn’t talk either, because speaking without being spoken to earns him more unembodied pain.

 

( _ My name is Peter, _ Peter reminds himself when he’s told to stand and touch his toes so the scientist can examine his spine.)

 

There isn’t a pattern to the experiments as far as Peter can tell— the man really does seem to be ‘just curious,’ as he said. Norman listens to the boy’s heart and lungs, performs a hearing test, and looks into Peter’s eyes with a flashlight until there are white spots in his vision. Then Peter’s given a long series of cognitive tests. And of course, all along Norman observes the results collected by the EEG graphs religiously.

 

( _ My name is Peter _ , Peter thinks over and over while he’s solving as many memory puzzles as he can in an hour-long period.)

 

When the sun comes up, Norman taps something on his remote and Peter is overwhelmed with tiredness, drifting to sleep within a few minutes. It’s not the same as the smothering effect of the drug from before; whatever control the headset on his brain simply tells his body to sleep, like it can turn him narcoleptic on demand. These breaks must be when the scientist himself rests, but Peter never sees it. Every time he wakes, it’s dark out and the man is at his side, watching and waiting patiently. 

 

Twice a day Norman takes him to the restroom and then brings him a new bottle of goo to drink. Peter figures it must be some energy concoction that replenishes lost calories and nutrients, but it still tastes like chemical waste. It’s also a minimum fulfillment; his stomach still aches with hunger.

 

( _ My name is Peter, _ Peter holds to, when he realizes he’s starting to forget what food tastes like.)

 

Apparently satisfied with the baselines he’s collected, Norman starts adding new variables. He injects a syringe-full of something ultraviolet into his arm and makes Peter walk on a treadmill to observe the effects. Whatever it is metabolizes harmlessly, and the scientist is fascinated. There are more injections and more physicals and more tests. At some point he notices how the child’s burned hand has recovered and that turns his attention to giving Peter’s skin nicks with a pocket knife, timing how long it takes for healing to occur. 

 

It’s all wrong in so many ways but made more so by the presence of more upbeat music on the iPod speakers, an unlikely soundtrack to the torture.

 

On the—fourth? fifth? He can’t remember— day, Norman neither injects nor cuts, but he has Peter run on the treadmill for as long as he can at increasing speeds. He’s given small shocks if he starts to show signs of exhaustion.

 

(Peter tries to think of his name, but all he can think is how relieved he is when he finally collapses and there’s no punishing shock.)

 

“There you go, you did good,” he hears Norman pur as hands stroke his sweaty hair back. “You’re doing so good, child.”

 

(“Child” may as well be his name now.)

 

Other things are said that he doesn’t have the energy to interpret. It’s only when the loud noise rings out that he startles into awareness, finding the woman in the room— when did she get there?-- and his sensitive nose picks up the metallic scent of blood. 

 

“ _ You’re free to go, Felicia. _ ”

 

The woman backs out the door and Peter can hear her stumble downstairs and out the back where rain is pouring viciously against pavement, but Norman’s attention is back on his subject. Only when he pulls out the remote does Peter look up at him, an involuntary whimper rising in his throat. Catching his pleading gaze, Norman chuckles. 

 

“Don’t worry, child,” he soothes. Against his will Peter relaxes, because there’s no anger and if there’s no anger he won’t be hurt. “All the pieces are nearly in place now.”

 

The man’s thumb comes down and sleepiness floods the boy. He lays stunned for a few minutes as his heartbeat slows and his tense muscles relax. 

 

The last thing he sees is his captor unfolding a second chair and setting it at his bedside. The last thing he hears is a crash from downstairs resounding around the house. 

 

Norman smiles. 

 

…

 

Tony barely spares a glance at Felicia after kicking the door open, just throws her the car keys over his shoulder with a hurried, “Take yourself to the hospital." She looks at him in surprise, but he doesn't care; he’s already leaving her behind. 

 

It’s as dark inside as it is out in the night and the only noise he can hear is the rain. The house is bare like it’s just been emptied and put up for sale. 

 

(Or recently acquired to be used as a front for kidnapping.)

 

( _ How could I have been so  _ stupid _. _ )

 

His self-doubts had been used against him and he played right into their hands. 

 

There’s a creaking from the floorboards overhead. It could be the house settling, or it could be…

 

“PETER!” Tony yells into the dark. With his eyes starting to adjust, he latches onto the railing of the staircase and feels his way up the steps. “Peter, where are you!” 

 

There’s some light reflecting down the hallway. Tony picks up his pace, and once he reaches the top of the stairs he sees the source: one door at the end of the hall is cracked open, spilling white light. 

 

The billionaire’s heartbeat is loud and rapid in his ears, pumping adrenaline through his veins. He activates his wrist gauntlet as he nears, pushing the door open. 

 

Like the rest of the house, the bedroom is bizarrely bare. Unlike the rest of the house, it looks recently used. The hooded lamp illuminates two fold-up chairs and table with papers and odd items strewn over it, a treadmill (...why?) by the far wall, and a makeshift bed, on top of which is—

 

_ Peter _ . 

 

“Kid!” Tony gasps. He’s at his side in an instant, scanning the boy’s face. He’s out cold. 

 

Tony looks over him anxiously, feeling a surge of distrust at the metal contraption settled on his head, but mostly just relieved that he’s apparently uninjured. No dissection marks or anything as nightmarish. His navel-less torso is uncovered and he’s still in the sweatpants he was wearing when he left the tower a few days ago.  

 

Gosh, he’s been alone for almost a  _ week.  _ Five days out of the thirty-five he’s been alive equates to 14% of his life— that would be approximately two years’ worth of captivity, had he been a normal 15-year-old.

 

Tony intends to make up for all of it. 

 

He places a hand on Peter’s cheek. “Peter, hey, it’s me, it’s Tony,” he tries, rubbing his thumb over the boy’s cheekbone to try and rouse him, but there’s no response. His hand shifts down to the pulse point at his neck and presses till he can feel the steady  _ thump-thump  _ of his kid’s beating heart. It’s strong but slow in sleep. Drugged maybe? 

 

“I’m getting you out of here,” Tony tells him. “I’m so,  _ so _ sorry I let this happen, but I’m here now. Whatever happened, it’s done, it’s over. I’m taking you home.” He can’t keep the comforting words from spewing out of him in hurried, hushed tones, even though he knows Peter can’t hear them.

 

There are no bonds to undo, no handcuffs to break. Nothing seems to be restraining the kid, so Tony has to assume the headset with its many wires and electrodes has some hold over him. Suddenly hating it, Tony takes hold of the edges on either side of the kid’s head and starts to lift.

 

Only, as soon as it’s shifted less than a millimeter, lights set into the crown flash and buzz warningly and at the same time, Peter unconsciously jerks and cries out in pain. Tony withdraws his hands in alarm. 

 

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” says a calm voice from the doorway. 

 

Tony whirls, his gauntlet hand outstretched and the unarmed one reaching to hover over Peter protectively. 

 

Mostly cast in shadow, a tall figure is leaning casually against the wall, arms crossed. His eyes are settled on the boy on the bed, who has fallen back into his comatose state. 

 

“What did you do to him?” Tony growls. “What is that thing?”

 

Far too slowly for Tony’s liking, the man shifts his gaze up to meet the billionaire’s with a small smirk. Wordlessly he pushes off the frame, sauntering into the room. He seems completely unaffected by the weapon aimed at him, simply settling into the plastic chair and folding his legs comfortably. He picks up a notepad from the table and pulls a pen out from behind his ear.

 

“If you want to live longer than the next ten seconds, I suggest you start talking.”

 

The man smiles wider, as if Tony hadn’t just threatened his life. “I’m sorry, I’ve just been waiting for this moment for so long,” he apologizes, not sounding all that sorry. He seems quietly giddy, if anything. “I’d offer you something to drink, but the cabinet here isn’t all that well stocked. A shame since tea would be nice on such a cold night, don’t you think?”

 

Tony remains locked in his defensive position between the man and his kid, gauntlet adding a bit of extra glow to the room. With the help of that as well as the lamp light, Tony realizes with a flash of surprise that he recognizes this man’s face as one he’s seen many times in the pages of scientific magazines and news articles:

 

“Norman Osborn?” 

 

The man gives a pleased expression. “The one and only,” he confirms.

 

Tony allows himself to voice the questions surfacing in his mind. “What the… But you retired over a year ago? Nobody’s heard anything from you since your son d—”

 

“Family emergency, yes,” Norman interrupts harshly. For a moment it looks like a stormy temper might break through, but he collects himself just as fast. He resumes calmly, “Well, yes, that’s what you thought, but it doesn’t appear so, does it? No rest for the wicked, and all that.”

 

“Yeah, looks that way,” Tony bites out. “So, after handing Oscorp to the board, you construct a masterplan to, what exactly? Torture a child in the name of bettering humanity? Hate to break it to you, but that ship sunk with the arrest of your Lizard buddy.”

 

Norman huffs a laugh, adjusting himself in his chair. “Everything will be explained. Please, Stark, your arm must be getting tired at this point,” he says, gesturing to the still-raised gauntlet. “Why don’t you disable your armor and have a seat? I’ll even wake up the child so you can have your hellos.”

 

At first Tony doesn’t budge, just holds his glare, but the words are tantalizing. It’s evident that the man holds some cards here, and with Peter on the line…

 

Angrily, reluctantly, he lowers his arm. 

 

The other chair is too far away from the kid for Tony’s liking, so without taking his eyes off Osborn or lowering the hand that shields Peter, he hooks his foot around a metal leg and inches it closer. Only when it’s jammed up against the head of the bed does Tony lower himself into it, facing where Osborn sits near the foot of the bed. His upheld arm lands on the cot, where he takes Peter’s smaller hand in his, thumb pressed against his radial pulse for good measure. He spares a moment to glance at the kid’s lax face in concern, and again at the ugly headset.

 

Norman watches his movements with the intrigues look of a scientist observing animals in the zoo. He scribbles something in his notes. “I can see you really care about him, how fascinating,” he murmurs, tapping his chin with his pen thoughtfully.

 

Tony grinds his teeth, waiting.

 

The chemist extends a hand genially, like they’re colleagues meeting up to compare notes rather than to negotiate a hostage situation. Glaring icily, Tony retracts his wrist gauntlet and returns the handshake in a way that’s anything but friendly. 

 

(He doesn’t know how long his patience will hold out in playing the psychopath’s games.)

 

“So!” Norman starts, clasping his hands in his lap. “As a man of science, I know you have questions. To be honest, I was really curious  _ myself _ how this little DNA project of Curt’s would go. Turns out, the cross-species splicing worked splendidly— you already know about the adhesive limbs, but did you know his hearing range is easily 200 kilohertz higher than that of a normal human? Not to mention advances in visual acuity… and the rate of blood clot! Cell regeneration is nearly 300% faster than average—”

 

“Sorry, do you have a point?” Tony interrupts. He doesn’t bother hiding his impatience.

 

Norman chuckles. “It’s been an exciting couple of days for me,” he explains, making Tony suppress a shudder. He doesn’t want to hear this. He doesn’t want to know about all the kid’s been through because of  _ his _ mistake.

 

“You said you were going to wake the kid up if I disarmed,” he says pointedly.

 

His company sighs. “Very well. I thought you might be at least interested in these findings, trivial though they may be in the grand scheme of things, but we can move along if you so desire...” He reaches for his pocket and withdraws a small black remote and selects a button meaningfully.

 

On the bed, the headset beeps and Peter gives a sharp intake of breath, like he’s surfacing from underwater. 

 

“Peter,” Tony breathes. He squeezes the boy’s hand as he stirs, hovering closer as those eyelids flutter. “Peter, hey, can you hear me?”

 

When those bleary brown eyes finally blink and stay open, they stare uncomprehendingly at the ceiling for a moment before sliding over to Tony’s face. The genius tries a smile, but it’s twisted with worry. “Hey, buddy.”

 

Peter's forehead wrinkles. “T’ny?” he mumbles, voice hoarse. “Wha’s…” He blinks and looks at the hand Tony’s holding on to, as if making sure that feeling is real. 

 

“He’ll be a little disoriented,” Norman supplies unhelpfully behind them. 

 

The kid’s gaze swerves past Tony to take in the other man, then darts back again, looking more alert. His pulse picks up under Tony’s fingers. “I-I-I don’t—” he starts, before clamping his mouth shut suddenly, like he’s afraid to voice the confusion he’s obviously feeling. 

 

He starts trying to prop himself on his elbows, to which Tony quickly moves to help him sit up. Peter shrinks back, skittish at the touch. He looks back at Norman again and his swallows nervously.

 

“Hey, you’re alright,” Tony whispers, trying to shut the other man out and focus the kid on what he has to say next. He waits till he’s got Peter’s attention again before continuing. “It’s me, buddy. I came. I found you. I’m so sorry I let you go; that was monumentally stupid on my part, I know that now, especially because...” 

 

He ignores the tightness in his throat, suddenly seeing the precious crayon drawing in his mind’s eye, where it’s now gathering dust on his nightstand back at the tower. “...Because, I love you too, kiddie. I love you too and I came to take you home.”

 

Peter’s eyes are locked on Tony’s, drinking in the man’s face and words like someone starved. His lip trembles in the silence after Tony’s declaration. With a swell of despair, Tony begins to think maybe he’s broken the kid’s trust too deeply. Maybe he can’t fix this one.

 

But then Peter does speak, and his voice is so tiny that Tony strains to hear it over the storm outside. One single word that’s more beautiful than any sound he’s ever heard, fragile and timid though it may be: “Dad?”

 

Tony doesn’t care how uncomfortable the position is on his aging body; he twists forward over the bed rail and wraps his arms around his kid ( _ his _ kid), gently pulling the mop of brown curls into his shoulder and trying to ignore the hard edges of the headset.

 

“That’s me,” he lilts into the boy’s ear. “If you want me to be, that is.”

 

After a second, trembling arms snake their way around Tony’s waist and Peter nuzzles himself against the man like a baby kangaroo burrowing itself deeper into the safety of its parent’s pouch. He hums a wordless confirmation that vibrates in Tony’s chest, slotting their universe back into place. 

 

Tony could’ve stayed that way for hours.

 

Except.

 

“Truly, Stark, you defy my hypotheses.” Norman’s voice is like an unwelcome jolt of lightning in the sky outside, startling the father and son into breaking apart. “Stark men are supposed to be ‘made of iron’, are they not?”

 

Tony goes rigid.

 

_ “Daddy,” the child whimpers, clutching his skinned knee and blinking up through wet lashes. “Daddy, it hurts.” _

 

_ Howard Stark looks like a cold, immovable skyscraper to the crouching boy. His gaze is hard. “It’s just a scratch, Tony. Quit your carrying on.”  _

 

_ Tony sniffles. “But--” _

 

_ He breaks off with a yelp as his father reaches down, grabbing hold of the 5-year-old’s elbow and yanking him to his feet. The scrape on his knee stings at the movement and his crying redoubles. _

 

_ Howard gives his son’s tears a look of disgust. He shakes the boy’s arm roughly to shush him, then jabs an index finger into his face. To the child, his eyes look manic. _

 

_ “You don’t wanna be a  _ sissy _ , now do you? If nothing else penetrates your thick skull, child, remember this: Stark men are made of iron!” _

 

The memory lances through Tony’s mind like a phantom pain. 

 

He can’t stand the knowing look in Norman’s eyes, doesn’t even know how Norman could possibly know about the phrase Howard had always taunted him with. 

 

“What is wrong with you?” Tony growls.

 

Norman simpers. He opens his mouth, no doubt gearing up some infuriatingly self-satisfied response, but Peter’s voice intercepts.

 

“Mr. Stark!” He grasps Tony’s wrist with both hands, tugging till the man looks at him. “Mr. Stark, you have to go, you have to get out of here! H-h-he said he wanted you to- to come. I-I-I don’t- don’t know why, but he’s crazy and he—”

 

“Shhh, Pete, slow down,” Tony hushes, taking his hand from Peter’s and giving the boy’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “He can’t do anything to me. I won’t let him hurt  _ either _ of us.”

 

Norman stands then, drawing their attention back to him. He walks over to stand by the window, face turned out into the night as he speaks. “I’m afraid there’s not much you can control here, Stark,” he murmurs. “It’s all up to the forces of nature now.” 

 

Wind screams against the pane. “Did you know,” he continues, “it was a night very much like this one that my own father taught me an important lesson. If memory serves, his words were ‘a little darkness never hurt anybody.’ Yes, that’s what he said to me when he locked me in a big empty house just like this one. It was the worst storm I can remember, and I was alone through it for twelve long hours.”

 

“Yeah, you know, somehow I’m not very sympathetic with you right now,” Tony says sarcastically. “Some people have bad dads; join the club. It’s not an excuse to go ballistic.”

 

Norman casts a sideways glance at him, his face shadowed. “Isn’t it, though? Did you not become a man tainted with the insanities of your father, Stark? Up until recently, I recall your being something of an overgrown child; still thirsting for the attention and approval of others. Always shamelessly splayed in the tabloids as a self-absorbed playboy, drunken scandals and all.”

 

“Shut up!” Tony snaps. “I’m not that way anymore!” Shame burns hot in his gut as the image of his past self is drudged up in the drastly different here and now. He doesn’t wanna deal with that, not when he’s come as far as he has. 

 

(A cowardly part of him is also eager to divert the questioning look on Peter’s face.)

 

“No, you’re not, and that’s what confuses me.” Norman draws himself away from the glass and folds his hands behind his back, pacing the length of the room almost like he’s thinking out loud. “The ‘Merchant of Death’ in you was buried in Afghanistan, but you still took on the persona of Iron Man with as much characteristic flash and irresponsibility as ever. You were the most arrogant of the Avengers, easily, and somehow you managed to play well with the others but… it’s hard to say when  _ exactly _ you changed your stars.”

 

“Okay, stalker much? You’re being cryptic as all get out. If you’re just gonna ramble mindlessly, me and my kid will see ourselves out. You mind getting this thing off his head?”

 

Norman stops pacing. Slowly, deliberately, he pulls the remote from his pocket. At the sight of it, Peter keens a fear-filled sound that fills Tony with the need to  _ protect _ . He pulls Peter closer with a steadying hand on his back, trying to convey comfort without words, and the kid leans into the touch. 

 

There’s a dark anger welling up inside Tony— how  _ dare _ anyone make his kid afraid like this?— but at the same time, he feels terrifyingly helpless. His world is inexplicably tied to this one small human now, and if he can’t keep  _ him _ safe then Norman may as well end them both.

 

“Isn’t it obvious, Stark?” Norman asks, fingering the edge of the remote. His eyes flicker meaningfully up at Peter. “I was never interested in the cross-species work; I let Curt carry on with it because it motivated him to help me, but he expended his usefulness when the boy took his first breaths.

 

“I’m not interested in military power or a cure to human frailty, like he and Felicia supposed. Other scientists have wasted years of their lives obsessing over such things, and I’ll admit I was curious enough to run some tests because I too liked those things once, but ultimately?”

 

His eyes flicker back and forth between Tony and Peter. “Ultimately, I am a philosopher. Like all brilliant minds, I’m haunted by my theories. I had a theory to test, only part of which involves this child. Don’t you see?  _ You _ are the other half of the experiment, Tony Stark; you have been from the beginning.”

 

For one of very few times in his life, Tony feels like the rug has been pulled out from under him. He stares uncomprehendingly. “ _ What _ ?”

 

Norman smiles, fingering the remote once more before pocketing it again. Tony tracks it with his eyes, mind already conjuring up ways he can get it off the man…

 

“Sins of the fathers passed to their sons…” Norman murmurs. “A pattern men like us can’t seem to escape. Except, you did. What is it? Some secret mutation locked away in your DNA? I had to know. And it wasn’t hard at all to collect a DNA sample from someone who flaunts himself to the public like you do… I had to change a few sequences, obviously, otherwise he’d have been a clone and that’s not what I wanted…”

 

“What are you talking about?” Peter pipes up, obviously trying his best to follow the monologue. Tony can’t blame him, he’s just as lost.

 

The man finally seats himself again, though he’s obviously still restless and eager to get his points across. He directs his answer to Tony, like Peter isn’t worth speaking to now that there’s another adult in the room.

  
“Your DNA, Tony Stark. I used it to pattern a unique genome. Not exactly the usual means of progenation, though I imagine a paternity test would yield positive results just the same. In essence, _you_ ,”—he points at Tony, then to Peter—“were the Archetype for  _ him _ .”


	13. Thirteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “There’s a knife in the drawer of the nightstand,” Norman states. “Feel free to make use of it. If either of you try to turn on me…” —he pulls a gun from his pocket with his free hand— “I’ll end the game early."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> all hail eccentric_artist_221b for helping me with this chapter

_“Your DNA, Tony Stark. I used it to pattern a unique genome. Not exactly the usual means of progenation, though I imagine a paternity test would yield positive results just the same.”_

 

Peter’s brain puts meaning to the words one at a time.

 

Unique genome: _Tony’s DNA was stolen somehow and used in this man’s experiment..._

 

Progenation: ... _An experiment which yielded biological offspring. And_ _—_

 

Paternity test: _—_ _That offspring is me. I am Tony’s biological child._

 

Norman’s last sentence stamps his conclusion: “ _You_ were the Archetype for _him_.”

 

Peter doesn’t know how to take this information. He looks to Tony immediately, trying to gauge his reaction for reference, but the man has a blank look in his eyes like computer software struggling to load properly. In spite of this, the boy can hear his racing heart trip over a beat.

 

“What,” Tony breathes, voice barely audible and devoid of inflection.

 

The man across from them nods, threading his fingers together over his knees. “He’s your son,” he confirms, toxic eyes grazing over Peter. “Non-traditionally, of course. No mother.”

 

Peter shivers, crossing his hands over his chest and rubbing the goosebumps off his upper arms. Whether it’s from the actual chill in the air on his bare skin or from the unexpected revelation, he doesn’t know.

 

Tony catches the movement, and in turn begins shrugging off his windbreaker _—_ its residual raindrops having dripped dry _—_ and tucking it around Peter’s shoulders in a robotic way. His face is still mostly expressionless, save for a slight pinch developing between his eyebrows. When the jacket is secure, he leaves his hand on Peter’s shoulder for an unnecessarily long moment, just staring searchingly at the boy’s face. His eyes dart up to Peter’s as if seeing him for the first time.

 

(Peter wonders if he’s also noticing how they’re the same shade of brown as his own.)

 

Tony’s mouth opens, but he forestalls. He wets his lips shakily.

 

“Why?” he finally asks, not looking away from Peter.

 

“My theory, Stark,” Norman rejoins calmly. “I needed to see how you would respond to a child. I made him to be about the same age and intelligence as my own son _—_ evidently he inherited some of his experiences as well, though that was a side-effect _—_ and I left him where you would find him. Oh yes, I knew you would find your way into our factory. Who do you think dropped hints in Fury’s direction? As if I couldn’t cover my own tracks if I had wanted to. No, it was all a controlled experiment from the beginning.

 

“And it appears your mutation stands,” he concludes, gesturing to how Tony still has a hand on Peter, though the genius’ gaze has shifted to the bedsheets absently, forehead still creased as he listens. “You actually care for your flesh and blood, despite how your father treated you. I knew you would take him in _temporarily_ , perhaps, being the ‘hero’ that you are, but to go so far as to _adopt_ him? Without even knowing he was yours? How did that hard heart of yours get so soft.”

 

Peter’s eyes dart back and forth between them, waiting for Tony to snap out of whatever trance he’s fallen into. He raises a hand and grips the man’s wrist on his shoulder imploringly, and at last Tony seems to come back to himself. He looks up at Peter’s worried expression and shifts their hands so that their fingers lace, offering a comforting squeeze before looking back to Norman with steeled eyes.

 

“And what is your endgame, Osborn?” he asks warily. “You had your social experiment. Now what.”

 

Norman tilts his head in contemplation, a smirk playing at his lips. “There are a number of ways we could proceed from here, aren’t there?” he drawls. “This moment is the culmination of many design. I admit I didn’t plan a conclusion. What does the universe have in store for us tonight...”

 

“How about you stay here with your creepy little fetishes, while me and the kid go get some Thai food and call it a night,” Tony suggests, sounding more like his usual self, then tacks on, “And mutually promise to _never_ see one another again.”

 

“Hmm… As fun as that would be… I think I know what must happen.”

 

Norman reaches for his pocket again, and immediately Peter’s mind goes blank with fear. He grips harder to Tony without thinking about it, eliciting a noise of discomfort and a questioning look from the man. Peter can’t explain, his tongue bound by the sight of the remote in his tormentor’s hand.

 

“Child,” Norman addresses, making Peter freeze in anticipation, “Stand.”

 

Peter scrambles to his feet in seconds, startling Tony as he releases the man’s hand. The oversized coat hangs around his shoulders. He grips the edges of it with white fingers, waiting.

 

“Come here.”

 

Tony makes a noise of protest but Peter is taking steps away before he can be stopped. He keeps his eyes on the wooden floor in front of Osborn as he stills, only to jam them shut in shame as a foreign hand prods him to turn and face Tony (but not before he catches a glimpse of the man’s shocked and indignant face).

 

“What are you doing with him?” Tony demands, jumping to his feet.

 

Norman’s hand caresses Peter’s neck and he flinches, biting his lip to keep silent. “He’s so well-behaved like this, don’t you think?” he remarks. “Pavlov trained dogs to drool at the sound of a bell. I trained your child to obey with the threat of pain. This is what he was meant to be.”  

 

“Would you can your philosophical bullcrap for _one second_ ?” the billionaire growls. “Peter is a human being who can think for himself. He’s not _meant_ to be anything!”

 

“Oh?” Norman hums. “Is that so?” Peter braves peeking his eyes open.

 

Tony is stanced a few feet away, his gauntlet hand twitching dangerously and his frame bristling with renewed anger. “ _Yes_ ,” he grinds out. “And anyone with two brain cells to rub together knows that a person is more than their collection of genetic blueprints.”

 

His eyes _—_ the original model of Peter’s own _—_ lock onto the boy and he directs his next words to him, softer now but still firm as a tree in a storm. “It’s what you _do_ with those circumstances. _That’s_ what defines you, not the other way around. Believe me, I built and programmed a sentient AI with the purpose of saving the world, and he literally decided to try and eradicate the human race. If he were just his programming, that wouldn’t have happened. That’s evidence for volition. Peter may have been ‘made’ for some twisted purpose, but he isn’t defined by that. He is _good_ . Because _he_ chooses to be good.”

 

Peter hangs on to the words with his whole heart.

 

“It must be nice to subscribe to such things,” Norman mocks. “But surely you aren’t saying one can _will_ themselves against the reactions in their own body? Right now, your veins are flooded with prolactin and cortisol because your child is in harm’s way. That is what you feel, not ‘love’. Human beings are entirely chemical.”

 

“Or maybe that’s just what you _want_ to believe,” Tony counters, a cutting glint in his eyes. “Because there are things you’ve done that you’d rather not take responsibility for.”

 

Norman’s jaw clenches.

 

He holds up the remote.

 

“You see this, Stark?” he asks, tone clipped and sharp and blatantly subject-changing. “This is a neurotransmitter that controls the headset I’ve attached to your son. It can do a variety of fun things. I already demonstrated how it can trigger the regulation of sleep hormones, yes? And he is quite familiar with its ability to stimulate pain receptors.”

 

Tony’s expression tightens. There is an anger in his eyes like Peter’s never seen before.

 

Norman goes on, “If free will is so important to you, then we’ll end this with a choice. Yes, that seems appropriate. See, the pattern is fathers and sons condemning one another; Accordingly, Tony Stark, you will kill this child. If not, I’ll make _him_ kill _you_.” He makes air quotes with one hand derisively: “The ‘decision’ is yours.”

 

Even as Tony is scoffing and growling a long string of threats at the man, something in the maniac’s words catch Peter off-guard. His eyes shift back and forth across the floor as the thoughts chase one another in his head. He interrupts whatever’s being said as it dawns on him:

 

“This is about Harry, isn’t it?”

 

The men pause. Peter can’t see Norman’s face, but he looks up to see the fire in Tony’s eyes doused somewhat with confusion. “What was that, bud?” he asks.

 

“Harry Osborn killed himself,” Peter presses. “I _-_ I know what he felt as he died. He d-did it because he felt like he wasn’t good enough for his dad. H-he would still be alive if Norman hadn’t treated him so _—_ ”

 

 _Pain_.

 

Peter screams, his knees buckling beneath him and slamming hard into the floor. Tony is yelling again but Peter can’t hear, can’t _think_ over the buzzing of electricity inside his head as billions of neurons burn bright and hot like so many tiny dying stars.

 

He’s avoided this for so long, been as obedient as possible, that getting it full-force again is as bad as it was the first time.

 

“-- _eave_ _him alone!_ Stop it! P-please...” Tony is begging when Peter comes back to himself. He’s on his side now at Norman’s feet, body wracking with gasps for air.

 

“Stay back or I’ll do it again,” Norman threatens lowly. He reaches down and grips Peter’s shoulder with no illusion of gentleness, yanking him upright. The windbreaker slips off and pools at his feet, though Peter’s heart is racing enough that he doesn’t feel cold anymore. His limbs are weighted with weakness but he stay standing due to the man’s vice-like grip.

 

“My _son_ ,” he bites out near Peter’s ear in a deadly whisper, “was _weak_ . There’s nothing I, or you, or _anyone_ could’ve done to change his fate.”

 

The statement is as cold and solid as ice, but trapped within is a glimmer of what Peter is certain is guilt. Guilt that was so painful to deal with that Norman froze its growth long ago with an unfeeling facade of twisted ideologies and repressed emotion.

 

Left to fester, the winter inside him had driven the man insane _—_ insane enough to project his situation onto someone similar to himself, at least in status and upbringing.

 

Someone like Tony Stark.

 

“Now,” Norman breathes, straightening as he composes himself. He lets go of Peter’s shoulder only to give him a rough shove toward Tony. Peter stumbles but manages to stay on his feet. Dread pours over him as he hears Norman’s ultimatum:

 

“Fight. Or _else_.”

 

…

 

Tony knows the instant Peter collapses that he needs help. He isn’t strong enough to watch this kid suffer.

 

While Norman is distracted with glaring disdainfully down at the boy and holding down a finger on the Remote from Hell, the genius grips his wrist and finds the panic button that will tap Rhodes into their location. It blinks red to indicate that the message has been received, but how long until the Iron Patriot actually gets there? It could be ten minutes or it could be hours depending on Rhodes’ distance… and he and Peter need backup _now_.

 

Meanwhile, Norman is muttering into Peter’s ear and pushing him forward, much to Tony’s confusion.

 

“There’s a knife in the drawer of the nightstand,” Norman states, though to whom he’s speaking, Tony’s not sure. “Feel free to make use of it. If either of you try to turn on me…” _—_ he pulls a gun from his pocket with his free hand _—_ “I’ll end the game early. I prefer to spectate, however, so...” He makes a _get on with it_ gesture with the gun.

 

“You’ll be waiting a while,” Tony tells him incredulously. “I’m not hurting my kid.” He glances worriedly at Peter, who stands stock-still between the men, eyes wide and fearful.

 

“Will I?” Norman slides a finger over the remote and Peter’s headset beeps in correspondence.

 

The kid sucks in a sharp breath, then another, and then his breathing turns shallow all together. Tony can just make out how his eyes dilate and his muscles begin to tremble ever so slightly. He whines, shaking his head like he’s trying to swat thoughts out of his mind. Tony looks back and forth between him and Norman, feeling terrifyingly helpless.

 

“Epinephrine rush,” Norman provides smugly. “His brain is preparing him to fight, filling him with fear… And there’s more where that came from if I don’t see some action _now_ , child. Fight.”

 

Peter takes a jerky step toward Tony. They meet eyes and there’s such a battle waging in the little one’s face that Tony winces. He can practically see the tug-of-war in Peter’s mind.

 

“I _—_ ” Peter gasps, planting his feet. “I w-won’t _—_ ”

 

“ _Fight_!” Norman yells. He must zap Peter briefly because the boy yelps and jams his eyes shut, barrelling forward blindly.

 

Tony easily side-steps the attack, but his heart tears in sympathy when Peter slams into the wall like a bird against a glass window. He splays his sticky fingers on the wallpaper at the last second to keep from crumpling.

 

“You can do better than that. Again,” Norman orders. Another zap, another cry of pain.

 

Peter shoves off the wall and throws himself in Tony’s direction again, eyes still shut. This time he swings out a fist that catches Tony on the jaw, snapping the man’s head to the side and making him stumble into the cot. The little bed slides out from under his weight and overturns with a crash, while Tony himself hits the ground painfully on his tailbone. He groans, shifting onto one knee.

 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” Peter whimpers from where he’s stooped in a fighting stance. Tony’s heart breaks at the sound.

 

“Kid _—_ ”

 

“Let’s go, Stark!” Norman interrupts gleefully. “I’m just warming him up!”

 

Even as Tony regains his footing, the trigger-happy maniac is quick to spur Peter on. Shaking like a leaf, the kid lunges forward again, arms raised. At the same time, Tony activates his wrist gauntlet in time to catch one of the wrists that flies at him, and quickly secures the other in his unarmed hand. He pulls Peter’s back against his chest in a confining sort-of hug.

 

“It’s okay, buddy, It’s okay,” he whispers over his shoulder as they both pant. “Help is coming. We just gotta hang on till it gets here.”

 

But the boy just keens as the headset buzzes again.

 

“I _know_ you’re stronger than him, child. Stop holding back,” Norman’s voice calls sternly.

 

Peter twists in Tony’s hold, ripping his hands free from Tony’s human grip with inhuman strength. He drops to a spider-like crouch as the man lunges to re-capture him, swiping Tony’s legs out from under him with a swift kick so that he plunges to the floor once again. Catching himself on his hands and knees, Tony rolls out of the way just as Peter moves to pin him down.

 

A new wave of fear kick-starts Tony’s heart. _Peter doesn’t have control here. Peter might actually hurt me. I have to defend myself. I have to end this._

 

 _But I_ can’t _hurt him._

 

He grasps for the nightstand behind him, pulling open the drawer as a barrier between himself and the spider-kid who is propelling forward again. The boy nimbly leaps the obstacle, just as Tony swipes the promised pocket knife into his hand and dodges another swing.

 

Peter stills, eyes on the knife in Tony’s hand. He looks up at the man’s face, horrified and guilt-ridden and a hundred other versions of afraid.

 

“Trust me, kid,” Tony pleads, shoving as much promise as he can into his gaze. “Just trust me.”

 

Peter presses his lips together and nods. _Brave little guy._

 

A droplet of sweat rolls down his temple and he takes slow steps backward until he feels his back press against the wall. He begins inching sideways, knife held out in front of him and gauntlet raised as if to ward the boy off. He subtly moves them closer to the corner of the room where Norman leans, enjoying his entertainment, and is relieved that Peter mimics his movements at the same pace and isn’t punished for the lull in action.

 

Tony chances a glance up at Norman. The man remains relaxed, remote hand draped over his waist and gun hand trained loosely on Tony. He raises an eyebrow and twitches his lips at the genius’ gaze.

 

“Having fun yet?” he taunts, eyeing the knife in Tony’s hand. “The readers are on the edges of their seats.”

 

“Oh yeah, so much fun,” the billionaire drawls sarcastically. “But you know what’ll really make my night?”

 

He lunges toward Peter, knife outstretched.

 

_Please trust me, please—_

 

The knife is inches from his kid’s chest when Peter disappears, having sprung upwards to the ceiling in a split-second movement.

 

_—That’s my boy._

 

The arch of Tony’s lunge continues and he follows it, his momentum carrying the knife until he lets go and it flies in trajectory _—_

 

 _—_ Plunging deep into Norman’s chest. Right in his cold, empty heart.

 

“...That,” Tony finishes.

 

The billionaire ducks to the floor in case the gun should go off (and just as he hoped, Peter is flattened safely against the ceiling), but it turns out to be unnecessary because the gun clatters uselessly out of Norman’s hand as he stares down at the knife protruding from his chest in mild surprise.

 

“Oh,” he says.

 

Tony doesn’t breathe in relief just yet; he saves that for the second after he’s lunged forward and snatched the remote from Norman’s loose fingers. There’s an OFF button that’s easy enough to spot. He powers it down just as Peter lands nimbly at his side.

 

The headset’s lights putter out.

 

He meets Peter’s eyes to make sure he’s okay with it before reaching out and gently lifting the device off his head, detaching the parasitic electrodes as he goes. When it’s fully off, he snaps the thing in two and throws it across the room with finality. The kid looks after it with a glare that Tony _almost_ thinks is cute. He looks like an angsty puppy. Like a baby Tony.

 

 _Because he_ is _a baby me._

 

“Oh, my gosh, _Peter_ ,” Tony breathes. His hands shake as he pulls the boy into a hug. “Oh, my _gosh_.”

 

“I’m okay, Mr. Stark,” Peter whispers, because for _some_ freaking reason this kid is comforting _Tony_ right now. Even though _he’s_ the one who’s been kidnapped and experimented on and forced to act against his will. “I’m okay. Are y-you okay?”

 

Tony pulls away to shush the unfounded guilt he knows is sparking in Peter’s eyes. “I’m _fine_ , kiddo,” he says firmly, fixing the kid with a look that conveys the undercurrent of, _this is SO not your fault_. Thankfully the message is received, if the way Peter’s shoulders relax and he offers a tiny smile are anything to go by.

 

There’s a loud thud as something heavy lands on the porch downstairs. Metallic footsteps clang around the empty house as that something _—_ someone— enters.

 

Rhodes’ voice calls out, “Tones? Where you at, man?”

 

“We’re up here, Rhodey. And you’re late, by the way. We already defeated the bad guy and everything,” Tony yells back, making Peter giggle. Tony groans, rubbing a hand down his face and slinging an arm around Peter. “Geez, I feel like I need to lay down for a few... _weeks_.”

 

“Mood, Mr. Stark,” Peter agrees solemnly. “Big mood.”

 

Tony squints at him. “Maybe _I_ need to take some millennial lessons from Ned, too.”

 

Peter gives him a cheeky grin and opens his mouth to say something, but suddenly his face pales and whatever retort he’s got loading dies in his throat. Tony frowns. “Kid, what’s _—_ ”

 

That’s all he gets out before the breath is knocked out of him and once again he’s been laid flat on his back, blinking at the ceiling.

 

(Gosh, he’s too old for all this tossing around. He has to make this more clear to his young, spry child.)

 

All thoughts are swept away with the crack of the gun going off, though.

 

Tony pulls himself upright frantically, the relief he’d only just started to enjoy gone in an instant.

 

From where he’s prone against the floor in a puddle of crimson, Norman’s hand drops the pistol for the second time. Tony mentally curses himself for not getting that thing away from him before calling them out of the woods; however,  _that_ is nothing to the rush of self-hatred he feels at the sight of Peter swaying dangerously on his feet where Tony himself had just been standing. Poor kid had to be phenomenally drained, and yet here he’d still managed to push Tony out of danger’s path  

 

“Just like Harry,” Norman rasps through blood-coated lips. “So eager to die…”

 

 _How’s that for ironic last words_? Tony thinks, as the man finally falls dead, his glassy eyes staring off into nowhere.

 

But then Peter slumps to his knees and Tony realizes what he meant.

 

…

 

So that’s how the Iron Patriot finds them, when he finally makes it to the top of the stairs: a dead body in the corner, and Tony desperately pressing a now-ruined windbreaker against the bullet wound on the right side of Peter’s chest.

  
Rhodey surveys the scene and _so many_ questions beg for his attention, but all of it goes out the window as soon as his best friend meets his eyes and his mouth soundlessly forms one agonized word:

 

“ _Please.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> !!wild!!


	14. Fourteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’re safe,” Tony whispers again, stroking the back of Peter’s head as carefully as one holds a newborn. “Dad’s here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry about the cliffhangers... caraminha told me they were sexy..

“ _Applying iTClamp in three… two… one_...”

 

Needles like teeth in the jaws of a small animal sink into his shoulder, and the grizzly sensation causes the boy’s back to arch off the gurney in torment. The clamp tightens viciously, but it fulfills its purpose: the skin around the gaping wound is pulled together and held there, effectively sealing off blood flow.

 

“ _Is that necessary_?” a familiar voice asks, though it’s edged with uncharacteristic panic.

 

“ _The clamp is a last-ditch effort in any case, but stopping blood-loss is top priority right now. Extracting the bullet will have to wait till he’s stable…_ ”

 

In the back of the racing ambulance, a bare form is surrounded by voices and yelling and blurs and motion. Within that form, a new heart— so young and desperate to live— trembles and trips in its hurry to beat.

 

(It beats too fast.)

 

“ _He’s going into hypovolemic shock… needs a transfusion…_ ”

 

“ _Do we know his blood type_?”

 

“ _It’s the same as mine,_ ” says the familiar voice suddenly. “ _Give him mine._ ”

 

“ _Sir, are you su—_ “

 

“ _I’m sure, just do it_!”

 

Needles in his arm. A hand in his.

 

Through a kaleidoscope of confusion, the boy tastes nausea and fear like bile on his tongue. There was a time he didn’t know words, but even though he knows them now, none are at his disposal when he wants to ask what’s going on and why. He knows that something has happened— something _bad_ — and now he’s here with burning radiating from the flesh of his shoulder and a thick warm wetness slathered down his side.

 

(Later when his mind is clear he will think back to this moment and think that the wetness was the worst of it all.)

 

(Because he knows even now in his scrambled thoughts that the wetness shouldn’t be there.)

 

His eyes slip closed and he spirals, fragments of conversation new and old fading in and out. He slides backwards...

 

“ _Tones, you need to use the waterproof side for the compress— the fabric side will just soak up more blood and it won’t—“_

 

_“Right, y-you’re right. I knew that, I knew that, I—“_

 

_Hands fumble over him, shaking violently but a comfort nonetheless. They turn the windbreaker over and shove the item of clothing harder against him, and it feels like hot ashes being pressed into his flesh. His jaws clack together uselessly, a cage to silent cries. The person above him flinches like his pain is contagious._

 

_“I’m sorry, buddy,” they choke, pressing harder still. “I’m sorry I’m sorrysorrysorry thisisallmyfault…”_

 

 _“Tony,_ breathe _. Ambulance is five minutes out. He’ll be fine, but you can’t help him if you’re panicking.”_

 

_A deep, albeit shaky, inhale. One of the hands lets go of his chest and moves to cup his cheek._

 

_Peter’s eyelids flutter, gaze unseeing but for a moment he finds an anchor in the eyes above him. They reflect the fear he is feeling like a mirror, but he still holds to them like solid ground in a stormy sea._

 

_Far too soon, the hand leaves his cheek and he tries to protest but all that comes out is a strangled whimper. The person shushes him gently, fumbling for his wrist and clasping something there over the pulse point._

 

_(Tony’s wrist gauntlet.)_

 

_“FRIDAY, read out vitals.”_

 

_A mechanical voice responds, talking about low blood pressure and other things, but the hand is back on Peter’s cheek and he focuses on that…_

 

Back in the present, someone is trying to speak to him.

 

“ _Can you tell me your name, son_?”

 

His name?

 

 _They called me Archetype_ , he thinks.

 

For whatever reason, the word that rasps out of his mouth is, “ _T’ny_.”

 

“ _Your name is Tony_?”

 

His forehead folds. No, that isn’t right. He tries to shake his head but it jostles his shoulder and he hisses, biting his tongue. There’s cold sweat sheening his forehead and he gets distracted wondering how long it’s been there.

 

Luckily, the voice he knows ( _Tony_ ) interjects on his behalf, and Peter drifts.

 

He blinks and they’re in an elevator now. They fill it up and it’s kind of funny— so many medical personnel needed just to attend to one small boy. There are tubes in his nose and mindlessly he reaches to pull them out but immediately voices are speaking and hands are restraining.

 

Instead of fighting them, he blacks out.

 

…

 

It was Peter’s third day from being brought home to the tower when he discovered rain.

 

Having been brought into the world in mid-August, his introduction to New York was one of late summer sunshine teetering on the edge of fall chill. Accordingly, most of the clothing Mr. Stark bought for him were long-sleeved or at least made of a thick material to keep him warm in day to come. Peter had actually come out of his assigned bedroom that morning with his shirt on backwards, much to his guardian’s amusement. How was he supposed to know shirts had a front and back?

 

Once that’s righted, Mr. Stark leads them easily to the living room and explains to him over breakfast their plans for the day, which were as simple as a walk in the park. Literally, he wants to take Peter on a walk to the closest park, just to give the kid some fresh air and let him explore a bit.

 

“But...  what if the bad lady finds us again?” Peter asks, tapping his eating stick— a ‘fork’— against the table nervously.

 

Tony had just helped himself to another mouthful of eggs, seemingly unconcerned. “We got the tracker out of you, kiddo,” he explains after swallowing. “And besides, we’ll be in disguise.” He wiggles his eyebrows playfully and Peter cocked his head in question.

 

A half hour later, Peter is sitting in the passenger side of one of Mr. Stark’s cars again, neck swallowed in a giant red scarf and head tipped back as he tries to see beneath the edge of a thick woven beanie that had “#MEOW” emblazoned across the forehead. At his side, Mr. Stark dons the hood of an over-large Hello Kitty sweatshirt and puts the car into gear.

“It’s a little nippy today, so nobody will question it if two cat-obsessed tourists bundle up for a stroll,” the man proclaims with the typical self-assurance that has Peter’s nervousness stilling and a little smile spreading on his face. Mr. Stark’s quirky speech and mannerisms both intrigue and comfort him for some reason.

 

( _Could it be that his very DNA had willed him to trust his progenitor?_ )

 

When the first raindrop hit the windshield, Peter jumps in surprise. He watches with wides eyes as another splat of water, and then another and another follow. They’re just pulling to a stop in the dirt parking lot when the speed of the raindrops increased tenfold, becoming a full-on downpour.

 

“Geez, what timing,” Tony sighs above the roar of the rain. “Maybe another time, kid? This isn’t ideal, but at least we got out of the—” He pauses when he turns and catches sight of the enchanted look on Peter’s face. The boy has lifted a hand against the glass, experimentally feeling the cold surface and staring transfixed at the glass fogging up.

 

Tony’s mouth goes slack. After a few seconds, he forms a small, amused smile and suggests, “Or… since this is your first time meeting rainy weather,  we could risk the wet. What do you say?”

 

Peter meets the question with bright-eyed eagerness and that is answer enough.

 

He had them wait till it slows down a little bit (about 10 minutes, which are spent in silence as Peter continues to look out the windows with all the captivation of a kid at the movies), but soon enough Tony is opening up the passenger door and guiding his charge under the spare umbrella he had luckily stored in the trunk. The kid shuffles his feet in every puddle and looks back and forth from the water to Tony with a childish ‘look what I found’ expression on his face more than once between the parking lot and the nearby pavilion. Once under the shelter, Tony sets the umbrella aside and gestures for the kid to look around to his heart’s content.

 

Peter tentatively approaches the edge of the structure and puts his hand out into the open. The feeling of water hitting his palm is both exhilarating and soothing at the same time.

 

He laughs.

 

They stay there until the sky clears and clouds swam past overhead enough to reveal a gentle rainbow breaking across a newly-cleaned atmosphere.

 

“It’s... pretty, I guess,” Tony says gruffly, standing from the bench he’s been lounging on to come and stand side-by-side with Peter, hands in pockets and posture unsure: the picture of one whose life has been fast-paced for so long that he’s forgotten what it’s like to be still and smell the roses. He sniffs.

 

“Water just… falls from the sky,” Peter whispers in awe. He inhales, long and deep, taking into his lungs the fresh, powerfully calming smell of ozone and reinvigorated earth.

 

“Rain after a dry spell smells the best,” Tony comments, noticing the kid’s twitching nose. “It’s because the water coming down actually washes pollutants out of the air. Natural air freshener, you could say. Nice, eh?”

 

( _This is what rain is supposed to be._ )

 

( _Rain is not supposed to be the backdrop to torture._ )

 

Peter turns to smile widely at the man, mouth open to make a comment about something or other… he can’t really remember what it was, now. The fact is, he halts as an eerie buzz of warning tingles up his spine. His warning sense. He pulls up to his full height and looks around, defensive.

 

“Kid?” Tony prompts, seeing the change in demeanor. They meet eyes and Tony’s are full of concern. Maybe neither of them knew it yet, but they are also full of love. How did Peter get someone to care about him like this?

 

The world is shifting and changing around him into something darker, more sinister, a complete contrast to the peaceful memory…

 

…

 

He comes to screaming.

 

Indistinct figures loom over him, masks covering their faces and gloves on their hands. Pain like a fire poker digs into his shoulder, bleeding into the nerves and tissues of his whole upper body like a spreading wildfire.

 

_Was any of it even real? Did he ever even leave the lab where he was born, or was it all a dream?_

 

“How is he awake?” a stranger’s voice asks, sounding amazed. “The amount of anesthesia _—”_

 

“The bullet is out,” someone else says. “Just keep him still a minute longer.”

 

Hands restrain his wrists and his cries cut out in panicked gasps.

 

_I-won’t-let-them-make-me... I-I-won’t-let-them, I-won’t—_

 

He kicks the person nearest away from him, blindly yanking off an oxygen mask and scuttling sideways till he crashes suddenly to the floor with a yelp. There are shouts of alarm, machine noises blaring, and amid the chaos Peter keeps his eyes squeezed shut, too afraid to open his eyes again and see himself back in that place. His shoulder flares in pain as he presses his back against the nearest wall, feeling behind him with his good arm, trying to get a grip to crawl away.

 

Before he can do more than adhere one hand, however, there’s a new presence in front of him, shouting at the others to stay back. It sounds like- but _—_

 

“Peter,” the voice he dares to listen to says firmly, “Peter, you’re safe. It’s okay, you’re okay. Open your eyes for me, buddy?” There are hands taking his again, but this time they’re familiar, calloused and gentle in a way he knows, and he doesn’t shake them off.

 

Slowly, he opens his eyes.

 

The brightness behind Tony silhouettes him like a guardian angel. His face is gentle but pinched with concern, just like it was in Peter’s imaginings.

 

_...Was it real?_

 

He chances a peek down at his wrist and sees the wrist gauntlet still settled there firmly, tracking his vitals and setting the illusive memories in stone: life with Tony, high school (of all things, that feels very unreal right now), the empty house, getting shot- he remembers with a wince how the bullet had felt like nothing more than a painless shove at first, only to fester and burn into his core moments later… and now he’s here, wherever here is.

 

“Tony?” Peter mouths, looking back to the man’s face. He gives a shuddering sob.

 

The billionaire himself has suspiciously wet eyes. “Y-yeah, kiddo, it’s me. I’m here. You just gotta let me help you back to bed so they can finish stitching you up, okay? It’ll be over before you know it and I’ll be here the whole time. Promise.”

 

Had he more energy and less pain, Peter might’ve lunged into his father’s arms; as it is, he simply relaxes and lets his head fall forward onto the man’s shoulder in a show of trust.

 

“You’re safe,” Tony whispers again, stroking the back of Peter’s head as carefully as one holds a newborn. “Dad’s here.”

 

…

 

It might be the fact that he’s a couple pints of blood lighter than usual, but Tony is feeling decidedly light-headed and sick to his stomach as he sits beside a now-sleeping but blessedly _alive_ Peter. He can do nothing but sip absently at the fruit juice Rhodey had shoved into his hands at some point (“you need to replace the fluids you lost, Tones”) and watch the gentle rise and fall of his kid’s chest. That gentle rhythm is the only thing capable of slowly overcoming the trauma of the past hour.

 

Getting his chest opened up by strangers in a foreign land is what Tony Stark considered the most painful and frightening experience of his life thus far; having to hold Peter down while he cried and thrashed on the operating table for the last of his surgery? It felt almost the same.

 

It’s nigh on 1 in the morning now, and this definitely qualifies as one of the longest nights of his life.

 

The hospital staff, growing impatient with the lack of forthcoming information on Peter (his lack of a belly-button being one among their many questions), had tried to get Tony to come fill out paperwork and get things sorted, but luckily Rhodes was there to see the exhaustion in his friend’s eyes and shoo them all away. A bit ago he had come in to inform Tony that, after a call to Nick Fury, SHIELD had gotten involved and was currently working to hand out non-disclosure forms to every hospital employee who’d so much as seen the kid. Normally Tony would be quick to follow up with that, but as it is he just nodded at his friend and continued on staring at the boy he almost lost.

 

(His _son_.)

 

Peter’s breath hitches in his sleep (they’d finally gotten a proper dosage of medication to counteract the super metabolism right as his stitches were finished- go figure) and he rolls his head in Tony’s direction, forehead knitting. The hand still gripping Tony’s (the hand that hasn’t let go since Peter realized who it was) tightens lightly.

 

“Shh,” Tony mumbles, rubbing his thumb over Peter’s knuckles in what might be the most gentle gesture he’s ever made in his life. “Shh, you’re okay. You’re okay, Pete.” He breathes a sigh of relief as the boy relaxes.

 

It’s honestly near-humorous to see the kid in an actual paper-hospital gown. Tony feels like he could be in the NICU, looking on at his infant like any other new parent. How insane is that, that Peter is… he’s actually… _his_. He's joked about having a biological kid out there somewhere before but this is something else.

 

He still has to tell Pepper. And Rhodes. He doesn’t know if he’s come to terms with it himself yet, to be honest. Will it change their relationship? Sure they’d already established the adoptive family thing, but what if Peter has time to think about it and realizes he doesn’t want Tony as his parent like that? Because staying with him for lack of other options is one thing, but staying out of obligation because some maniac put him together out of Tony’s scrap DNA is another…

 

Well, whatever Peter decides, Tony resolves that for him at least it won’t change anything. Peter was his family by choice before DNA had anything to do with it and that’s all that matters.

 

(He just hopes he doesn’t screw the kid up, now that he’s got the psychological pressure of being an Actual Father.)

 

His phone pings with a text and he welcomes the intrusion, sliding it from his pocket and frowning when he sees a message from an unknown number. Turns out, he’s gotten a few texts from the same number earlier in the day so he scrolls up to read them.

 

[unknown] 10:56am: _hey loser_

 

[unknown] 10:56am: _ned is lonely so like is loser jr coming back soon or what_

 

[unknown] 11:09am: _Mr. Stark sir! I’m so sorry, I let Michelle have my phone for a second and I didn’t know she sent those! We’ve just been worried because Peter hasn’t been at school this week. Is everything alright? Anything we can do?_

 

Then, the one that had sent a moment ago:

 

[unknown] 12:34am: _Mr. Stark are we still friends? Please don’t be mad, I didn’t know she called you loser! It’s like a term of endearment for her, honest!_

 

He tilts his head, his mouth falling open in amusement. Before he can go to text the poor kid back, another text comes in, this time from the number he has saved for MJ.

 

[MJ] 12:35am: _ned says ur at a hospital, whats going on_

 

With a few swipes, he adds them to a group chat and sends the first message out.

 

[Group- Tony Stark] 12:36am: _Isn’t it a bit late for growing teens like yourselves to be up? And Ned… did you track my phone_

 

[Group- Ned] 12:37am: _uuuuhhhhh… I mean. Yes? But MJ was not supposed to say anything!! >:( _

 

[Group- MJ] 12:38am: _get over it, there are more important things rn_

 

[Group- Tony Stark] 12:40am: _She’s right, guy in the chair. I’ll let this one slide. It’s been a long day._

 

[Group- MJ] 12:40am: _?? explain_

 

[Group- Tony Stark] 12:41am: _It’s a long, confidential story. We had a scare but the kid is safe now. He’s resting. I can’t say how long till he’ll be back in school, sorry._

 

[Group- Ned] 12:42am: _omg mr stark I’m so sorry, I hope he’s ok from whatever it is!!_

 

[Group- Ned] 12:42am: _Is there anything we can do to help?_

 

[Group- Tony Stark] 12:44am: _Not right now. Just look out for him when he gets back, the way you have been doing._

 

[Group- Tony Stark] 12:44am: _And thanks for checking in. You’re good kids._

 

[Group- Ned] 12:45am: _:) :) :) yes sir!_

 

[Group- MJ] 12:47am: _yeah well, just make sure he and his frog get better soon_

 

[Group- Tony Stark] 12:48am: _His frog??_

 

[Group- Ned] 12:48am: _wait what frog_

  
[Group- MJ] 12:50am: _the one in his mouth. Am i the only one who sees it?_

 

_[Group- Tony Stark] 12:50am: ...What the Heck_

 

_[Group- MJ] 12:52am: whatvr im going to bed. night losers._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what MJ said  
> wow one more chapter to wrap things up! first fanfic almost complete at 50k words, what a trip. I did not mean for it to get this long but I hope you've enjoyed it and I'd definitely welcome ur constructive feedback, because i got more fic ideas callin my name :^)
> 
> ...ps: @former AO3 user signofthree, if you’re reading this... i love you, fam. Hope everything’s good in ur life <3


	15. Fifteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “This is my son!” Tony calls to him by way of greeting. Peter rests his chin atop the billionaire’s head and waves shyly.
> 
> “Your fiance's nephew is your son?” Happy asks slowly, his eyebrows drawing down in concern. “Does she know this?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heY thank for your patience. endings are hard.

When Peter’s eyes open next, there is morning sunlight coming from the hospital window rather than the pitter-patter of rain. The storm has passed.

 

He blinks a few times, processing his environment as his sleep-addled mind comes to awareness. It’s silent, but the boy can hear distant sounds of birds and cars outside, the talking and shuffling of other people in adjacent rooms, the mechanical breathing of machines, and finally two heartbeats: the one in his own chest, and another nearby that is slowed in sleep. He slowly rolls his head to one side and sees the owner slumped in a chair pulled up close to the bed. 

 

The man is bent over in half, with his lower body in the chair and his upper body resting against the bed beside Peter. His cheek is cushioned by an odd sort of pillow made up of his hand clasped around Peter’s. He snores a little and drool dribbles down the corner of his lax mouth. 

 

It’s the most ungraceful Peter’s ever seen him- he has to stifle an unexpected huff of laughter at the sight. The movement brings his attention to a thin plastic tube taped against his face- a nasal cannula. 

 

Being careful not to jostle the hand Tony has pinned, Peter tries sitting up a bit. He can’t go far before a dull ache throbs through his chest. Looking down, he sees beneath the thin fabric he’s wearing that his shoulder is heavily bandaged. The bed he’s lying in is reminiscent of the one he’s spent the past week in enough to look familiar, but unlike the one he was held hostage in with its lone thin sheet and metal rails, this place is built with some semblance of hospitality. It’s warm and used. A whiteboard on the wall has his nurse’s name and a smiley face drawn by it.

 

(He vaguely remembers his freak-out earlier and feels a pang of guilt.)

 

When he turns back around, he notices something unusual on the nightstand by Tony: a set of car keys, a goofy little get-well card, and a stuffed animal black cat holding a heart, probably from the hospital gift shop. He wonders who could have possibly left it.

 

Before he can lean forward to investigate, though, Tony starts to shift and Peter freezes, watching. 

 

The man tightens his hold on Peter’s hand and his forehead wrinkles. His heart rate picks up slightly, his snoring cuts out and he murmurs a shaky, “Pet’r? Wh’r’s… m’ kid...” 

 

Peter feels his heart do a little somersault. “Mr. Stark,” he whispers, voice coming out hoarse. No response. He clears his throat a bit and tries again a bit louder, “Tony?”

 

Tony jolts upright, his tired eyes fluttering open and blinking wildly. He releases Peter as both hands press into his eye sockets for a moment, mouth pulling open in a wide yawn. One hand instantly goes to his back pocket and retrieves his phone, while the other slides down the rest of his face, patting his own cheek and holding his scruffy chin and he scrolls through whatever notifications he’d missed while asleep. In another moment he’s setting the device screen down on his lap and stretching his arms over his head. It’s not until he’s rolling his neck one way and then the other that he catches sight of Peter wide awake and watching him.

 

“Holy--!” he exclaims, his chair legs screeching as he jumps in his seat, making them both cringe. “Kid! You’re- and you didn’t- how long have you just- where are your bedside manners!”

 

Peter feels a grin tugging up the corners of his mouth. “My what?”

 

“Your- your bedside manners,” Tony repeats, settling back into his chair, one hand clutching his heart dramatically. “That’s doctor lingo for ‘be nice to the poor old man who’s had the living daylights scared out of him enough for his life, let alone one night’. Give me some warning next time, would you?”

 

“I don’t even- what?” Peter shakes his head in bemusement but winces when his wound throbs. “Ow.”

 

In an instant the teasing face is gone and been replaced with one of concern. “How are you feeling? What’s your pain like right now? Are you hungry at all? Thirsty? Gosh, you’re probably thirsty- hang on-” Before Peter can say anything, Tony’s out of his seat and pouring water into a plastic cup from the sink. As soon as it’s filled, he’s pressing it into Peter’s hands and anxiously looking over the readings on the machines attaches to the kid.

 

“Mr. Stark, I-”

 

“Shush,” Tony interrupts without looking up from the kid’s vitals. He shoots a hand out and feels around for Peter’s wrist, manually lifting it and thus the cup up to Peter’s mouth til Peter concedes into taking a sip. It does feel good in his throat.

 

“I feel okay, really,” he tries weakly once he’s drained the cup. 

 

Tony finally relinquishes his study of the monitors in favor of turning to appraise Peter once again. He’s fully awake now, eyes a storm of nervous energy, a hand over his mouth as though holding back all he wants to say. Between his fingers he counters somberly, “You weren’t.” It’s so quiet that even Peter barely hears. “You were dying.”

 

Peter swallows, unsure how to respond. He settles for reaching out and taking Tony’s free hand in his and settling it over his chest so the man can feel his heartbeat. 

 

“I’m okay now,” he whispers, trying for a comforting tone. “You saved me.”

 

In his usual fashion, Tony goes from zero to sixty in an instant. Peter blinks and the man is wrapped around him like a blanket, hands on his head and holding him close like a teddy bear. “Yeah, well, I shouldn’t have had to,” he murmurs by the kid’s ear, emotion warring with brazenness in his tone. “Don’t you  _ dare _ try taking a bullet for me ever again, young man, do you understand me? I have a rep to keep up and getting damsel-in-distressed by a little squirt like you is  _ not  _ helping. Worst night of my life, I swear.”

 

Peter shakes his head indignantly into the man’s shoulder but giggles and reciprocates the hug nonetheless. 

 

“I love you too,” he says. 

 

They stay like that for a moment longer before Tony pulls away and has a real look at the bandages on the kid’s torso. “Can I-?” he starts, gentle fingers skirting around the wound until Peter nods wordlessly. They both watch as Tony peels a wrap of gauze back to expose the stitched-up skin. Needle marks from the ITclamp are healed scars like a bite mark encircling a jagged line of inflamed skin where bullet had torn through flesh. It’s not pretty to look at, but it’s far more healed than any day-old gunshot wound ought to be. 

 

“Nicked your brachial artery but thankfully missed lungs and spine,” Tony murmurs, looking for only a second longer before wrapping the bandage back into place. “You lost a lot of blood. Thank goodness we’re both A positive, eh?”

 

Peter nods shakily, looking at his hands. “Because you’re my dad,” he states bluntly.

 

A shallow intake of breath. “...Because I’m your dad,” Tony confirms. 

 

There’s an odd feeling between them suddenly and Peter is reminded of the Force in Star Wars, how it supposedly intensifies between bonded individuals.

 

“Are you- I mean, is it really…?” Peter asks hesitantly, peeking up from under his lashes. 

 

“I had FRIDAY run it last night to make sure the transfusion was safe,” the man nods. With his fidgeting hands, bouncing knee and nervous gaze, Tony looks about the way Peter feels. “I honestly don’t know how that fruit loop got ahold of my DNA; he had to have snatched a hair or skin sample at some public event or other. Either way, I should have known sooner.” A pause. “Gosh, Peter, I- I’m so sorry.”

 

Peter’s chin snaps up. “You’re sorry?” he repeats in confusion. “For what? You don’t- I mean- I’m the one who’s sorry! I’ve caused you so much trouble, I-”

 

“I’m gonna stop you right there,” Tony cuts in. “I’m the one who fostered that lunatic’s games. I’m the one who played right into what he wanted. You on the other hand? There’s literally nothing you could’ve done different, bud.”

 

“Neither could you,” Peter insists stubbornly. “Norman made this happen but that’s just- that’s just our circumstances, like you were saying before! We can’t control what someone else does, just what we do; and you did everything you thought was right.”

 

Tony is silent for a moment, leveling the kid with a searching look, fondness glowing in the depths of his eyes. Peter holds his gaze, resolute.

 

Finally the man sighs, “I’m no child development expert, but your abstract thinking skills are a little advanced for a one-month-old. I wouldn’t give myself the credit you seem to give me, but whatever.” Before Peter can argue more he hurries to add, “Let’s just… quit the blame game. It’s getting us nowhere. Agreed?”

 

Peter blows out a raspberry, pouting, but nods. “Agreed.”

 

“Peter, I…” Tony sniffs, rubbing his forehead. “I just need to ask, for my peace of mind… Do you still… are you still okay with, like, being my kid? I-”

 

“Mr. Stark-” 

 

“-I have a lot to figure out,  _ obviously _ , but I want to try, I- I want to... be your dad,” the billionaire rushes out, his face flushing suspiciously.

 

“I want you to be my dad, too,” Peter tells him plainly, thinking that has to be the most obvious fact in the world, but Tony still sags in relief and smiles.

 

“Okay. Okay.” Tony nods to himself.

 

Another long pause. They both listen to the sound of a cart wheeling by outside the door and whoever is pushing it calls good morning to another staff member. Peter plays with the plastic hospital bracelet on his arm that seems to have replaced Tony’s wrist gauntlet at some point in the night. Bolded letters identify him as POTTS, PETER. The DOB and age section are conspicuously blank and he scoffs through his nose. 

 

His gaze slides back over to the card and stuffed animal on the nightstand and he opens his mouth to ask about it, but Tony provides the answer before he gets there.

 

“That stuff showed up sometime last night when I was asleep,” he says, picking up the toy cat and handing it to the boy to inspect. “Guess that means the blond chick is alright, since she returned my keys.”

 

“Felicia?” Peter looks up. “She’s okay?”

 

Tony rolls his eyes. “Yes, kid, the woman who nearly killed you twice is okay. Here.” He hands over the card too and inside is a scrawled message:  _ See you around, spider-boy. _

 

“Spider _ -man _ ,” Peter corrects under his breath, thinking of Ned and the things they have planned.

 

“What was that?” 

 

“Nothing.” He sets the card down and looks up innocently. Tony narrows his eyes but doesn’t push.

 

“So…” Peter pronounces slowly. “What now? Can we leave soon?”

 

“Gosh, I hope so. I hate hospitals,” Tony sighs tiredly. “We’re going to have a completely hospital-free life after this. Hospital-free, injury-free, tauma-free; just you and me and Pep eating donuts and watching cartoons in the tower for days, kid.”

 

Peter grins. “Whatever you say, Mister- er- Dad? Dad.”

 

“Mr. Dad?” Tony looks torn between amusement and awe at the title.

 

Now it’s Peter’s turn to blush. “Shut up.” 

 

…

 

Due to the fact that Peter heals 300% faster than a normal human (the stat comes unbidden to Tony’s mind, and he knows the last 24 hours are gonna be a topic in therapy sessions to come), he’s cleared to go home as early as the next afternoon. Pepper is one step ahead of them, having been clued into the story by Rhodes- she’s already cleaned and prepped Peter’s bedroom and let the high school know a censored version of the situation so his teachers can expect him to reappear soon. He’ll be on bed rest for at least another week just to be safe; as eager as the kid is to get back to his friends, Tony’s not letting him out of his sight so easily again. 

 

Even though he whines at first that his legs are  _ perfectly fine _ , Peter is giggling when he’s made to enter the building via piggy-back ride. They pass a stiffly staring Happy Hogan on their way to the elevator.

 

“This is my son!” Tony calls to him by way of greeting. Peter rests his chin atop the billionaire’s head and waves shyly.

 

“Your fiance’s nephew is your son?” Happy asks slowly, his eyebrows drawing down in concern. “Does she know this?”

 

“Heck yeah,” Tony affirms, clapping the man on the shoulder as they pass.

 

“She’s my mom now!” Peter chips in helpfully just as the elevator doors slide shut.

 

Happy stares at the closed doors for a moment longer before shaking his head and walking away. 

 

Meanwhile, the piggy-back ride quickly becomes a group hug when the woman in question sets her sights on them in the penthouse. She’s just finished setting out lunch for her boys, and as soon as she’s done pressing kisses to both their heads, they settle down to enjoy a family meal in perfect view of a certain crayon drawing that’s been recently framed and displayed prominently on the once-bare wall.

 

…

 

A week from Peter’s rescue, Tony is woken by a scream in the night. It’s a heartbroken sound.

 

(The bullet wound is healed but Norman’s influence isn’t.)

 

“FRIDAY?” the genius calls breathlessly, already stumbling into the dark hallway.

 

“Peter is unharmed. It appears he’s just woken from a nightmare,” she informs, her speakers low for the late hour. Tony swallows and nods a wordless thanks.

 

As soon as he throws open the door, Tony catches sight of the kid balled up in a fetal position in his bed. His hands are claws around his head, eyes jammed shut, chest heaving with ragged cries. At the sound of his entrance, frightened eyes open wide and latch onto Tony like he’s a ghost in the dark.

 

“I killed you,” he croaks, chin trembling, tears budding on his eyelids. “He made me kill you.”

 

“No, you didn’t.” Tony hurries to pry the kid’s hands away from where they’re digging into his own skin, folding them into his own palms and holding tight. “You fought against him and you won. I’m okay. You’re okay. We’re both okay now.”

 

It takes fives minutes of whispered reassurances for the dream-induced panic to subside, and another twenty of holding Tony’s hand and drinking in his living, breathing presence for Peter’s eyes to finally slip shut in sleep again. Tony stays for ten more, just watching over him.

 

…

 

The next time their minds are dragged back to the dark empty house in Forest Hills, it’s Tony’s fault and he feels sick to his stomach afterwards.

 

Peter’s been back at school for two weeks now, and other than being a little embarrassed the morning after his nightmare, he’s as resilient as ever. 

 

He’s also gotten much better at acclimating to social situations at school and home, but he still makes the occasional mistake. Like forgetting to text Tony about going to Ned’s house after school one day. 

 

“I’ve been waiting for 45 minutes, are you sure he doesn’t have another ride?” is the first thing Happy says when Tony picks up the phone one weekday afternoon. The security guard has been appointed the boy’s driver, since he’s someone Tony trusts enough to do so, and also because it lessens the likelihood of other kids or teachers seeing Peter with Tony Stark and asking unwanted questions. For now they’re going with the story that Peter is an SI intern since it could get suspicious if anyone hears Peter call Tony ‘Dad’.

 

“Wait, what?” Tony’s heart near-stops, an dizzy flood of dejavu overcoming him as he considers all the possibilities of a missing Peter. On his phone he’s already triangulating the kid’s position. (Remember that project he was working on, the honing device for parents to locate their lost kids? Yeah, he made sure Peter had a wrist-watch version of it the moment it was completed. Panic button and everything.)

 

“He probably just went home with a friend or something. Can I go now?” Happy’s grumpy voice says. 

 

Tony gives a non-committal, “Sure, thanks Hap,” and hangs up the call. Meanwhile, sees that Peter’s current location is, in fact, pinpointed on the Leeds’ address. His eyes narrow in a mix of relief and annoyance. He shoots a quick text to Ned and within a minute gets one back confirming that the kids planned for Peter to do homework at his house that afternoon and they’re together now. 

 

It doesn’t help that he’s already had a stressful day and was looking forward to his son coming home. 

 

He’s pacing in front of the windows when Peter bounds in hours later calling a cheerful thanks to Mrs. Leeds for the ride home. When the kid turns and sees Tony, his wide smile falters a little bit at the stern look on the man’s face. “Hey, Dad,” he greets. “What’s up?”

 

The billionaire shoves his hands in his pockets, trying to stay cool but needing Peter to understand what he’s about to say. He levels him with a serious, deadly calm look (Pepper might call this his ‘Dad face’). “Peter, where have you been.”

 

“I was with Ned,” Peter answers, a confused fold forming between his brows. “We were studying for the calc test next week. I already had dinner, so I’m just gonna…” Innocent as ever, he adjusts the backpack strap on his shoulder and starts heading towards his bedroom.

 

“Peter,” Tony says firmly, a bit of the past hours’ frustration leaking into his tone. “Come back here right now.”

 

The boy freezes. His back is to Tony, but after a beat of stillness, he turns slowly on his heel and takes a tentative step towards him. If Tony weren’t in a bad mood, he would’ve seen the anxiety in Peter’s movements, the unusual blankness in his eyes. 

 

As it is he sees the boy being hesitant and it annoys him more. 

 

“Sit,” Tony commands, pointing at the sofa. Peter immediately sits. His eyes are downcast submissively. 

 

“I know you’re a ridiculously smart kid. So I don’t understand why you thought it was okay for you to disappear without letting me know. What am I supposed to think, huh? I can’t read your mind, Pete.”

 

“I’m sorry,” Peter whispers. His hands are shaking minutely where they rest on his knees. 

 

“It’s not that I don’t trust you,” Tony goes on obliviously, “because I know you’re capable of taking care of yourself. But dang it, kid, if something happens to you, then that’s- that’s on me. I don’t need that on my conscience. Do you understand?”

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

Tony sighs, deflating a bit.  “Look at me,” he says tiredly. Peter does so. “Buddy, I’m just…”

 

He trails off, finally taking in the state of his son. 

 

Tony still has one hand shoved in his pocket, and for some reason, the kid’s gaze is locked on that spot like there might be a coiled snake inside, or something equally dangerous. He looks… afraid.

 

The stress fizzles out of Tony in a moment, concern bubbling in its place. He’s never been this stern with Peter before, but... he doesn’t think he’s being stern enough to warrant this reaction, right? He’s purposefully being level with him in a way Howard never was. 

 

“Kid…” Tony begins in a softer tone. He pulls his hand out of his pocket along with the Stark phone he was holding inside and moves forward, intending to sit down next to the boy. 

 

As soon as the cell is in sight, however, Peter flinches violently against the back of the couch, his hands jumping to grip the edge of the seat, wide eyes flying between the device and Tony’s face in a silent plea for… what?

 

It doesn’t click at first. Tony’s mouth falls open, a half-formed question on his lips as he puzzles out the fear that’s now obvious on Peter’s face, but he looks at his phone again and he realizes:

 

A small, rectangular object…  _ the remote. _

 

And he’s been giving him direct orders. 

 

_ Crap on a  _ stick. 

 

He drops his phone immediately, not even caring how it clatters across the floor and probably cracks the screen. 

 

“Peter, oh, my gosh, oh, my  _ gosh _ .” He reaches a hand out, uncertain how to correct the damage, but pulls it back just as fast and backpedals a few steps till his legs hit the other seat and he falls into it heavily. “Peter, I- I didn’t think; I’m such an idiot, I’m so-“ 

 

All he can see is Peter, still staring at him like a deer in headlights, looking like he did under Norman’s control, afraid of being hurt for his disobedience, and the billionaire can do nothing but shove his head into his hands in horror. 

 

He loves this kid.  _ That _ was the point of this lecture, dang it;  _ that _ was the point. 

 

“I didn’t mean it like that, I would  _ never _ \- please forgive me…” he chokes out under his breath. What a pathetic father he is, cowering across from the child he just re-traumatized.

 

He sits there cursing his stupidity in silence and dark for who knows how long (likely only a few minutes), until eventually weight dips the cushion next to him and a tentative hand places itself on his shoulder. 

 

Tony’s fingers part so that he can see the boy loyally settled next to him, apparently offering  _ him _ comfort after his mistake. Despite looking distinctly shaken, there’s an intense look in those young eyes that conveys total forgiveness, an acknowledgement that they’re both new to this. Tony’s bruised and battered heart melts at the sight. 

 

“I love you,” he says, because he needs to, “And I’m sorry.” The words are heavy with more sincerity and conviction than he’s ever used with anyone, except probably Pepper. 

 

Peter leans his head against the man’s upper arm. 

 

“I know,” he whispers. “And I forgive you.”

 

…

 

It’s after the the third time something comes up that they do something about it.

 

A few weeks after the previous incident, they’re in the lab on a Friday night working in companionable silence-- Tony tinkering with a suit at his desk, and Peter reading a book in the little alcove he likes overhead where the ceiling beam meets the wall. They’ve been at it for an hour or so, but more and more Peter keeps setting his book pages-down and staring off at nothing with a contemplative look on his face for minutes at a time. Finally Tony calls him on it.

 

“What’s got you stumped, kiddie?”

 

Peter blinks out of his thoughts and looks down at him. “Hmm? Sorry, I was just- thinking...”

 

“Yeah, I can see that,” Tony says, shaking his head to hide a fond smirk. “You look like you’re trying to solve world hunger in one go. Anything you want to share with the class?”

 

The boy swings his legs over the edge of the beam and presses his lips together, considering. Tony puts his tools down and waits.

 

“I had… a weird day,” Peter admits slowly. 

 

“Weird how?”

 

“Like, I kept-” he pauses and eyes the man warily, like he knows what he’s about to say will be taken poorly. “Well, I kept remembering things from Harry’s perspective...”

 

True to form, Tony’s expression hardens. “Like what?” 

 

Peter shrugs. “He was just really lonely, is all. Today was my first time in decathlon, you know, and it was fun for  _ me  _ but there was also this sense of like, dejavu, you know? Because Harry- he was on the team once. And he thought getting in would make his dad proud, but…”

 

“But his dad was a lunatic,” Tony finishes flatly. 

 

Peter nods. “And beside that, he just had a lot of… inner turmoil going on. For lots of reasons.” 

 

The genius brushes a hand over his goatee, sighing. He  _ hates  _ it that his kid has someone else’s personal traumas locked in his head. At least they know the source, now, and if anything, these vague recollections are easier to deal with than the panic attacks of earlier times. The misplaced connections seem to be losing their grip the longer Peter lives to make his own memories. That’s a good thing, but still...

 

“That sucks. Poor kid.”

 

“I just wish there was some way I could talk to him,” Peter continues. “I know he’s gone, but even if I could just talk to him in one of the memories I’ve got in here,” he taps his own temple, “I could give him some closure, you know? I’m sure that doesn’t make any sense…” he smiles sadly.

 

Tony raises an eyebrow, a lightbulb going on in his head. “Actually…”

 

…

 

Though anything even resembling an EEG headset makes Peter feel sick, he bites his lip and closes his eyes to allow Tony to slip the B.A.R.F. glasses onto his face. 

 

The empty room pixelates and rearranges until they are suddenly standing in the courtyard behind Midtown Tech. The long shadows and orangey sunlight place the time around late afternoon, so the only students around are those in after-school clubs and practices; even a few of the kids Peter recognizes from Academic Decathlon are making their way out of the building. 

 

“Later, Harry!” one of them calls, looking back, and both spectators to the memory trace their eyes back as well, seeing a lone figure sitting propped against the side of the building. 

 

The boy has his knees up to pillow something only he can see in his lap. He looks up from whatever he’s doing to give a tight-lipped smile and wave at the others before turning back, expression pinching. He yanks out one earbud and looks around at the empty parking lot anxiously. Seeing no one, Harry wraps his arms around his knees and burrows his head into his sweater sleeves. His shoulders being to tremble.

 

“His dad forgot him again,” the real Peter whispers to Tony. He wraps his fingers around the man’s hand and takes a deep breath, concentrating.

 

From where he stands physically at the edge of the memory, Peter shimmers and a duplicate version of himself steps forward. Tony sucks in a breath beside him, but doesn’t let go of his physical hand as the avatar of Peter approaches Harry.

 

“Hey,” illusion-Peter greets cheerfully.

 

Harry’s head snaps up in surprise, his eyes rimmed with red, and quickly wipes his face. “Who the heck are you,” he snaps, but there’s no heat to it.

 

“Peter. Can I sit with you? You look upset.” 

 

The kid looks him up and down warily like he’s expecting a trick. “Why? What do you care?”

 

Peter smiles, already sliding down the brick wall next to him. “I’m not like Flash or Jason,” he assures. “Those guys are real jerks. Trust me, I know. I mean they’re not  _ bad  _ people, but they’re not… good, either.”

 

“Tell me about it,” Harry mutters. He fiddles with one earbud absently, looking unsure how to interact with someone as friendly as Peter.

 

“What are you listening to?”

 

He pulls an iPod out of his pocket and turns it around to show him the cover art for what’s playing, a song called  _ For Forever _ . “It’s from a play called Dear Evan Hansen. Ever heard of it?”

 

Peter shakes his head. “Is it good? Cool iPod, by the way.”

 

“I mean, I like it. You might, if you’re into musicals... And thanks.” He runs a finger down the worn, well-loved device. “I know I can just sync my iTunes to my phone now, but my mom gave me this before she passed so it’s kind of, like… I’d rather keep it, ya know?”

 

“Gotcha.” 

 

They sit in silence for a moment, but it’s more comfortable now. Eventually Peter clears his throat and says carefully, “I don’t want to pry, but like… how are you, dude? Are you okay?”

 

Harry glances sideways at him briefly before turning his eyes up at the sky. “What are you, my therapist?”

 

Peter shrugs. “You matter,” he says simply. From the way Harry’s upturned eyes gloss over with unshed tears, it seems to be what he needed to hear. He heaves a shuddering breath.

 

“I’m a mess, man,” he whispers. A tear slips out and rolls down one cheek.

 

The air beside Peter shimmers and suddenly there’s a travel-size pack of tissues there. He picks it up and offers it to Harry with a warm smile. Between any other pair of teenage boys, the gesture would be odd, even laughable; but the way Peter’s eyes are devoid of pity, the way he sits and waits, completely relaxed, until Harry slowly accepts the pack and begins to wipe as the new tears spilling down his face… it feels like something real and human. Something that, if it weren’t for stigma, could happen much more often.  _ Should  _ happen much more often.

 

“I’ll walk you home,” Peter offers. He pulls himself up and offers his hand to the boy still on the pavement. After a moment, Harry accepts it and the two stand side-by-side, a peaceful understanding settled over them.

 

As they start to walk together, the memory slowly fades from top to bottom until Peter and Tony are once again standing alone in a whited-out room. Their hands are still intertwined, but Peter now holds the BARF glasses in his free hand. As the last of the scene reconstruction disappears, he carefully folds them and hands them to Tony. The man takes them and pulls Peter against his side with one arm, rubbing his shoulder soothingly. 

 

“You did great, kid,” he whispers.

 

Peter nods, feeling more calm than he has in a long time. “That’s what I would’ve done. That’s what I’m  _ going  _ to do.”

 

He doesn’t have any more flashbacks of Harry after that.

 

…

 

It’s early October, and Peter’s going to another party. This time with Ned. (And possibly MJ, though she shows up or doesn’t show up to functions like this depending on her mood.) This time, it’s at Liz’s house and there is no pool involved. He feels a lifetime away from the last time he tried this, and he finally feels ready for it.

 

If Tony will let him leave the car, that is.

 

“Do you have your phone? Your charger? Your pepper spray-”

 

“Yes, yes, and… wait, what?” Peter laughs, his hand already holding the car door eagerly. “I’m gonna be _fine_ , Dad. Ned’s right inside, okay? See, that’s him waving at me to hurry up.” Sure enough, his friend is at the window waiting, and Peter already can’t wait to tease him about the cowboy hat he’s got on.

 

“I know, I know, I just- I worry. You know, new dad and all…” Tony taps the steering wheel nervously. “Text me when you’re ready to go and I’ll be here, ‘kay?”

 

“Sounds good,” Peter agrees. He’s careful to pull his sleeves over the web-shooters on his wrist as he gets out. 

 

(Dad doesn’t exactly know about Spider-man, yet...)

 

“Bye!” Tony calls out the window. He watches his kid humor him with a wave back before turning and going inside. He may or may not sit there a little longer than necessary, and if he goes to a cafe a few blocks away to wait this party out, Peter doesn’t need to know.

 

All that matters is Peter is happy and well on his way to becoming the person he wants to be.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> now that it's over, i will reveal (if you didn't already know, though many of you did) where this fic idea came from: a little Doctor Who spin-off series called the Sarah Jane Adventures! I basically swapped Luke for Peter and Sarah for Tony (and rearranged a lot of other things, but you get the idea).
> 
> to all who left nice comments and became my friends here and on tumblr, thanks for making my first fanfic writing experience a good one!! i'll be writing more stuff soon. IDK about more stuff for this AU; i didn't think past this point in terms of further story, but i'm open to ideas if you wanna drop me a prompt on tumblr :) 
> 
> see you later!!
> 
> Bean


End file.
